


Surge

by bottled_lightning



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Electrocution, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Protective Hank Anderson, Thunderstorms, Two Shot, oc is just for medical stuff, originally a one shot that got too long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27252001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottled_lightning/pseuds/bottled_lightning
Summary: Connor just wanted to see his first summer thunderstorm. So of course, Hank figures, it goes horribly wrong.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 32
Kudos: 136





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This took way too long to do, but I wanted to get it up before the end of October, so I guess I did it lol Feedback is always appreciated!

The first summer storm is on the horizon, and Hank’s never seen someone so excited over the fact.

Granted, when it comes to _nevers_ in his life, said person is also the one most often to break them. Since the start of the season a month ago, Connor’s had an obsession. Which, to be fair, is nothing new; the kid obsesses over everything, from keeping his suits ironed and wrinkle-free, to giving Sumo his daily brushing and walks. He knew just about every damn thing there was to know about fish of all things, and had developed a fascination with birds during his first spring. (And maybe watching him observe the bird’s nest out back come alive with chicks in wonder had been slightly endearing—not that he’ll ever admit it out loud.)

June’s obsession? Thunderstorms, apparently. And so Hank learns all about stratus and cirrus and altrocumulus and something something clouds, hears the daily forecast every day down to the moisture in the air. 

“Hank, my weather reports predict the day’s relative humidity at one-hundred percent,” Connor chirped that morning, as if he were announcing Santa’s arrival and not a miserable, muggy day in hell. 

With how dark and heavy the clouds look, it seems the android will finally get his storm, and boy does he know it. The hardest damn worker in the precinct fidgets in his chair, taps his feet, and glances out the window every two minutes like clockwork. After an hour of questionable productivity, Hank engages him. He speaks quietly in the lull of the office, amusement in his tone. “Connor. The clouds’ll still be there if you don’t keep an eye on them, I promise.” 

The android starts. He swivels to face his partner, grinning sheepishly like a child caught in the cookie jar. “My apologies, Lieutenant. I appear to have become distracted.” 

“Yeah, no shit.” Hank eases back in his chair and stretches his arms above his head. He flashes a friendly smirk. “And here I thought mister super computer had perfect focus.” 

Months ago, Connor might’ve backed down, but now he rises to the challenge, snarky little shit he’d become. Cocking a brow, he returns the smile. Where the fuck did he pick up such a smarmy expression? “I believe you are among the last who should be advising others on ‘focus’, Hank.” 

“Oh, the robot’s got jokes now, does he?” The pen he throws effortlessly caught. 

“As well as reflexes, yes.” 

Hank scoffs, Connor chuckles. “You know, you never did tell me why you’re so damn excited to see a thunderstorm.” 

Connor looks out the window, his smile lingering. The vibrant blue hue of his LED feels warm and inspires a similar warmth in the lieutenant to see. But the tenderness in his voice, the hushed awe, catches him off-guard. “... so many of the things I know through the database coded into me, I’ve never actually witnessed. Before I deviated, the source of information did not matter, whether by text or word of mouth. But now with all of these new feelings, to know of something and finally experience it, it’s...” 

He looks at him with wide, vulnerable eyes, and something in Hank’s chest aches. “It’s like I truly _understand_ now,” Connor intones, a secret between them. “An unknown piece fitted in to place. And it feels...” He shakes his head, closes his eyes. “It feels...” 

God, how far he’s come from machine to man. 

“I get it, kid,” Hank says, not unkindly. “Maybe not since I was young, but I get it.” When’s the last time he’s felt such awe and wonder about the world around him? Too damn long. Easy to take it all for granted when it’s all you’ve ever known. “So, it’s just about experiencing one? Or is it the storm in particular?” 

“I admit, I am rather interested in the phenomena of thunder and lightning, sheerly for the spectacle.” His lip quirks up. “I have heard thunder in videos, but I suspect they don’t do it justice.” 

“Heh, got that right. You won’t know thunder until you feel the whole damn building shake.” Hank slumps forward onto his desk, reaching for a sip of coffee. God, how is it only ten? Maybe he’ll catch an early lunch. “Which’ll probably be any second now. Storm’s coming, I can feel it.” 

Connor regards him with curiosity, tilting his head. “ _Feel_ it?” 

Hank waves him off and makes some effort to look like he’s working, punching away at the keyboard. “Yeah. You know, in the air.” 

“Oh!” The exclamation startles Hank and when he looks up, Connor is goddamn _beaming_. “You’re referring to the falling atmospheric pressure in tandem with the increased concentration of ozone in the air.” 

“... yeah.” It’s way too early for this many syllables, a fact Hank conveys with his most dry, withering stare. “Or, like I said: _feel_ it.” 

“Feel what?” 

The two look up at the new speaker. Connor turns fully towards him with a polite smile. “Good morning, Officer Miller. Lieutenant Anderson and I were just discussing the effects of fluctuating atmospheric pressures on the human body.” 

Raising a brow, Chris shoots Hank a knowing smile over the rim of his mug. “Oh yeah?” 

Hank snorts. “That’s a pretty generous _we_ , but sure. Connor here’s pretty excited about his first thunderstorm.” Pausing, he sends his partner a small frown. “Wait, the _human body?_ You saying you don’t notice a difference?” 

“I do, Lieutenant, but likely not to the extant a human might.” He sits up straighter; Hank recognizes an incoming speech when he sees one. “My olfactory senses are noticeably diminished compared to the human capacity. In addition, I do not possess the muscular or skeletal system required to feel the ‘aches and pains’ some humans experience before a storm, nor does the change in atmospheric pressure create any tension in my cranial cavity.” Monologue complete, Connor offers them a smile that can only be described as proud. “Human sensitivity to subtle changes in the weather is truly remarkable.” 

“Uh... thanks?” Chris offers. 

“Just smile and nod, Chris.” 

“Although I suppose,” Connor continues thoughtfully, as though neither had spoken, “I am likely more susceptible to perceiving changes in the electric charge of the air than either of you.” 

“What, like—” Chris squints. “Feeling static electricity?” 

“Potentially. As a major portion of my constitution is composed of metal circuitry and parts, and my system functions are primarily powered by electricity, it would make logical sense for my being more attuned to the surrounding charges.” He raises a hand closer to his face, expression pensive. “Perhaps that is why I am feeling... tingly.” 

Hank frowns. “‘Tingly’?” 

“It’s the most suitable word I can find. It as though a current is running across the outline of my body; I can feel a low thrum of power in my thirium pump and other essential biocomponents.” 

“You sure that’s normal?” Chris appears concerned. “Isn’t the thirium pump like your heart?” 

“Yeah, Con. Sounds like you’re gonna have a heart attack or something.” Hank won’t put it past the android to hide one from him, self-sacrificing bastard. But Connor just smiles, hands settled together in his lap. 

“I assure you I am well. Though I am a prototype, allowing their pinnacle creation to fall to benign, inescapable electric charges would have been a grave oversight on CyberLife’s part.” Something about his smile suddenly seems smug. “I am in fully-functioning order.” 

Chris flashes Hank a grin. “Not very humble, is he?” 

“When it comes to being a ‘state-of-the-art model’?” Hank shakes his head. “Nope. Gotta hear about it damn near every day.” 

“Lieutenant, I believe that is hyperbolas—” Cutting himself off, Connor jerks his head to the window. Sure enough, seconds later, rain begins pelting the glass, torrential in its intensity. He watches with rapt fascination, conversation forgotten. 

Chris lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Guess we got back just in time.” 

“Right. Heard you and Reed were out early this morning.” Fuck it, Hank gives up any pretense of still working and turns towards his coworker, a smirk playing at his lips. He keeps the android in the corner of his vision. “And how’s four am Gavin? A bucket of sunshine?” 

“You know it,” Chris chuckles. “Dragged the perp in about ten minutes ago, he should be back any minute now.” 

“I’ll try to contain my joy.” 

“Is there a reason three of my officers are currently doing jack shit? Or should I give you a moment to think of one?” 

Ah, hell. Fowler. Chris stands up straighter, offering the Captain a tight-lipped smile. “Sorry, sir. I’m off.” He gives Hank a nod. “Talk to ya later.” As he passes by Connor’s desk, he raises his mug in acknowledgement. “Hope you enjoy your storm, Connor.” He doesn’t get a response; Hank wonders if Connor’s gone into some kind of low-power mode to focus all his senses on the rain. 

Jeffrey jerks his head in the android’s direction, speaking quietly. “He good?” 

“Yeah, he’s fine. Or nothing worse than the usual. Kid’s all hyped up about the storm.” 

A raised brow. “Really? Why?” 

Hank shrugs. “Says it’s his first. Hell if I know what goes on in that robo-brain of his.” He crumples a loose sticky note on his desk into a ball and lobs it at Connor’s head; the kid catches it before he bets he even knows what he’s doing. “Hey, Rain Man. Gotta get back on track.” 

Connor finally looks over, eyes darting between the two men, and Hank can practically hear the gears turning in his head. A comical flash of panic on his face as he straightens his posture. “Captain Fowler. I apologize, sir, for becoming distracted. It will not happen again.” 

Hank very much doubts that. His boss seems to share his sentiment, tone light. “See to it that it doesn’t. You’re not setting a very good example for your partner.” 

Said partner snorts. Jeffrey knocks on his desk and fixes them both a stern look with a ghost of a smile. “Back to work, you two. Try to get something done before the WiFi goes down.” 

Connor cocks his head. “Are you expecting a power outage, Captain? Does the station not have a back-up generator?” 

Fowler lets out a heavy exhale. “It does, but with a storm like this, I’m more fearing a transformer will get struck by lightning or hit by some jack ass who forgets how to drive in the rain.” 

“Ah, come on, Jeff.” Hank waves his hand. “Haven’t had any issues like that in like two decades, and we’ve had plenty ‘a storms in that time.” 

His boss shoots him a look. “Oh, well now that you’ve jinxed it, I’m sure everything will be fine.” 

A flash of yellow catches Hank’s eye.“ _Jinxing_ ,” Connor says. “To cause bad luck, often by predicting an outcome with absolute certainty. See also: _tempting fate_.” Yep, right off to the internet in his head as expected. 

“Thank you, Connor,” Hank sighs. 

“Hank, you shouldn’t _jinx_ things.” 

“I know, Connor.” 

Another knock on his desk, the smile a little fuller. “Back to work, you two.” 

“Gotta get you to be all wide-eyed in front of Fowler again sometime,” Hank whispers to Connor as their captain walks away. “Wasn’t on my ass so hard for slackin’ off.” 

Connor frowns. “Hank, you shouldn’t plan to ‘slack off’. With your disciplinary folder—” 

“I wasn’t planning nothing. ‘s just good to have a back-up plan. Now quit yappin’, some of us are trying to work.” It’s always worth it to push the android’s buttons to get that look of indignation, the slightest narrowing of his eyes and a goddamn pout. If CyberLife had been going for social integration, they’d failed miserably, but going for disarmingly childish? Well, that might have some merit. He guesses it wouldn’t do for a negotiator to be intimidating. Still, resembling a thirty-year-old, his ass. 

Connor simply turns back to his computer with a huff. Suppressing a grin, Hank has one last thing to say before he returns to his own work. “Hey, let’s say we grab lunch in an hour. You can spend your whole break just watching the storm.” 

The android doesn’t face him again, but Hank can practically hear the disapproval in his tone. “Hank, it is only a quarter-past-ten—” 

“Hey, if you’d rather risk having it pass over in two hours, that’s on you.” Three, two, one... 

“... very well. An early lunch.” Hah, got ‘em. “A _healthy lunch_.” Damn it. 

“Fine,” Hank grumbles. “Goddamn androids...” 

Connor doesn’t dignify him with a response (but he bets there’s a self-satisfied smirk anyway). Hank watches him raise his right hand to the monitor, skin bleeding to pure white chassis, a sight he still isn’t entirely used to. Then he lays the palm flat to the screen and the tips of his fingers pulse a faint blue. Wild ass scifi shit. What does Connor see exactly when he interfaces like that? He always closes his eyes, so maybe the display itself? 

Maybe he’ll ask later... if he remembers. 

As the storm continues, the precinct works in unusual quiet, save the occasional hushed conversation or cough. Hank does his best to stay on-task, but rain always has a way of making him feel lethargic and the paperwork doesn’t help. He isn’t sure whether he’s happy to be inside. On the one hand, he remains dry and doesn’t risk falling in the mud on his ass. On the other, paperwork. Tedious, bureaucratic paperwork. Even at the height of his love for his career, he never enjoyed sorting through files. Fuck, how has it only been a half-hour? 

Interruption comes in the form of one Gavin Reed, as it often does. Spotting Connor deep in his work, the man smirks and quietly ambles over. Hank doesn’t even have to look up. “Don’t.” 

Finger pre-flick before Connor’s forehead, Gavin freezes, looks at him, and huffs. With a scowl, he drops his hand. “You’re no damn fun, old man.” 

“Uh-huh. Keep walking.” 

So he does, grumbling all the while, and Hank gives the file he’s currently pouring over a smirk. Keeping a closer eye on Connor while he’s interfacing has become second-nature at this point. Someone or something jolting him back to awareness doesn’t seem to _hurt_ him per se, but by the following disorientation and rapid blinking, it doesn’t look exactly pleasant either. Hank doesn’t mind the extra vigilance on his side; hell, with Connor’s evident obsession with running into traffic to catch a suspect, it was a necessity. They’re partners, after all, and partners look out for each other. 

Overhead, thunder rumbles, rolls in closer to pull him from his thoughts. The lights dim for half a second. Hank’s eyes drift to the displayed time on his monitor as his colleagues murmur about the sudden flickering. Only ten minutes until the agreed-upon hour. Maybe Connor’s excitement for the storm will convince him to leave even sooner, though the android appears as engrossed in his work as ever, not even looking up for the flashes of lightning out the window. But fuck, isn’t _he_ the lieutenant here? If he says it’s lunchtime, it’s goddamn lunch time, no ifs, ands, or buts, and if stick-in-the-ass Connor has a problem with that, then— 

A deafening crack of thunder makes him jump in his seat, in time with a brilliant flash that blinds the room. He hears the sounds of shattering glass, electronic sparks, and startled exclamations and shouts, and finally, a loud thud nearby. All this in the span of two seconds, obscured by stars in his eyes. 

“What the fuck—” Blinking rapidly, vision returning, Hank notices the whole floor has been plunged into the lukewarm darkness of an overcast morning, not a single screen still on, the lights dead. Holy shit, he’s never heard such a roar of thunder in his life. “Now Connor, _that_ was thun...” The word dies in his throat as he looks to Connor’s station. 

Connor isn’t there. His monitor, like the rest, is blank, but his is also smoking. A black outline of a hand warps the centre of the screen, the glass around it partially melted. Connor’s chair is noticeably away from his desk, as though the person sitting on it had suddenly kicked out. Following its direction behind him, Hank’s heart seizes. 

Splayed on the floor, LED an alarming, flashing red, Connor lies dead to the world, eyes rolled back in his head. His right arm is extended limply in the air, but the hand itself is rigid, white plastimetal with the palm and fingers charred black, still smoking. His body jerks now and then with slight electric jolts, an eye twitches. For a long, stupefied moment, Hank just stares. 

Then years of emergency training and experience kicks in and he rushes to his side. 

_“Connor!”_

His knees hit the floor hard but he doesn’t feel it, can’t feel anything but mounting dread in his gut. Gently, afraid to move him too much, Hank cradles the android half in his arms and half on his lap. Just as gentle, he taps his cheek. “Connor?” Getting no response, firmer. “Connor, can you hear me?” Nothing, no reply, no hint of awareness, only blank, unseeing eyes that make the hairs on the back of his neck stick up. Fuck, is he even breathing? Without ventilation, he’ll start overheating soon. 

In his panic, Hank didn’t realize Chris has sprung up behind him until the man speaks. “Hank? What the hell happened?” He bends to one knee beside Connor, brow pinched with concern. 

“Pretty sure he got shocked when the power surged,” he explains grimly. “Here, help me carry him to—” 

Before he can finish his sentence, Connor begins to seize. 

“Fuck!” Hank curses, trying to ease him back on the floor, an effort made difficult by the flailing limbs catching him in the face. Jumping to his feet, he shoves the surrounding desks far back out of the way, Chris quickly catching on and doing the same. He doesn’t know if seizures work the same way for androids as humans, but it won’t hurt to give him some room in case he tries to slam his head off a table leg. Hank falls back beside him, hands hovering over his ailing friend. “Chris, go get tech, fucking _go get tech_ —” 

“On it,” comes the curt reply, and Hank’s glad Chris understands, or at least appreciates, the urgency of the situation, unlike the few onlookers he can spot still standing dumbly by their dead monitors gawking at the android writhing on the ground. Even half a year on from the Revolution, not everyone accepts Connor, and he wonders if they’d be so useless if he were human instead. Molten rage bubbles in his chest. He wants to scream, chew them out, sink his teeth into familiar anger rather than this gnawing panic, demand how dare they, how dare they treat his suffering as spectacle—but anger is always easier and he knows it won’t do Connor any good. He settles for shuffling his body to block their view. Connor wouldn’t want his coworkers seeing him reduced to this. 

Minute after torturous minute passes, and just as Hank is debating running to fetch help his own damn self, Connor finally stops seizing and falls still. Too still. Hank doesn’t know which view is worse: the kid writhing and flailing or lying completely still, motionless. If not for the glaring red light at his temple, Hank would’ve assumed him dead, shut-down; eyes still rolled back in his skull, body unnaturally rigid like a corpse in rigor motis. His burnt hand remains slightly extended in the air, palm flat and blackened fingers out, as though he is still interfacing with a display. 

“Connor?” Hank tries again, a hand so light upon his cheek, like he’s made of glass. No reply, although he hadn’t really expected one. His heart is racing. Where the _fuck_ is— 

“Lieutenant Anderson?” 

_Thank God._

“Yeah,” Hank replies, glancing over his shoulder at the arriving technician, Chris in tow. Molly’s her name, Molly Stewart, someone he trusts after who fucking knows how many trips to her office when his android partner inevitably did something stupid and risky, and he’s never been so happy to see the bespectacled technician in his life. “I think the computer shocked him when he was interfacing with it, he just had a seizure.” 

She slides to her knees beside Connor, diving into her little white bag of tech toys. “Has he been awake? Conscious at all?” Leaning over the injured android, her brunette ponytail hanging over her shoulder, Molly places what looked suspiciously like a stethoscope against his chest. 

“No, I’ve tried, but he’s not responding to anything.” 

Molly purses her lips, a subtle change of expression but alarming on anyone working in healthcare; if Connor gives him shit later about his blood pressure he’ll only have himself to blame. “His thirium pump is sluggish and without ventilation he’s starting to overheat.” She looks at Hank, as serious as he’s ever seen her. “We need to get him to medical.” 

Hank doesn’t have to be told twice. He reaches for Connor, intent to carry him himself no matter how damn heavy the kid might be, when Chris joins his side. “I’ll take his legs,” he says, so Hank lifts him under the arms, vowing to buy the man a nice steak dinner after all this. Molly leads the way in a light jog through the bullpen just as the power comes back on. 

Just before reaching the medical room, the group runs into Fowler—near literally. The captain, who’d been barking orders to get the situation handled, falls silent as he spots Connor, eyes widening. “Hank, what—” 

“Computer shocked him,” he grunts, snappish from the delay. “Taking him to medical.” 

Thankfully, the man steps out of the way; Jeffrey is a good enough leader to know when to stand aside and let others handle things. Still, Hank can see the concern on his face. “Keep me updated.” 

A sharp nod and they part ways, though by how Fowler immediately slips his mind, the man will be lucky to get any further word out of him at all. All that matters now is Connor, getting Connor help, not letting Connor die because this time he really won’t come back. No more second chances, no more tricks up his sleeve. Just dead. Dead like— 

_No_. He can’t think like that, not now when Connor needs him. He can’t dwell on the panic brewing beneath the surface because acknowledging it means giving it power. Hank tries to shake it off as they finally get Connor into the medical bay. 

With care, Hank and Chris lift Connor onto the small white bed centre back of the infirmary. Molly heads straight for her laptop sitting on the counter, taps away at the keys, then dives into the cupboard beneath, wrangling with several black cords tangled together. Chris backs up closer to the door, looking unsure of what to do with himself. Hank stands stock still, eyes never leaving his partner’s prone body. 

He’s startled out of his stupor when Molly kicks her rolling chair over to Connor’s bedside, balancing on one foot as she juggles between laptop and cords. Hank almost goes to her side to assist, but evidently the woman has experience because she slides into the seat without stumbling once. She jams one end of a thick black cable into the computer, gently turns Connor’s head away to expose his neck, and comes at him with the other side. 

Hank jerks forward, alarm spotting his voice. “Woah, the hell you doing?” 

But the technician doesn’t hesitate, running her thumb over the back of Connor’s neck before plugging into the revealed port. “I need to check his diagnostics,” she explains, typing away. “Since he can’t just tell us currently, I need to establish a manual connection.” She glances over to flash Hank a quick smile. “Don’t worry. This is all pretty standard for androids.” 

Androids, right. Sometimes it’s hard for Hank to remember his partner isn’t actual flesh-and-blood human but wire-and-plate machine; he’d just reacted on instinct. No matter how squeamish seeing a cable jacked in to Connor’s neck makes him feel, he needs to remind himself that it isn’t hurting him whatsoever. It’s just like... taking someone’s blood pressure. Or something. 

His hands keep clenching at his sides to steady his nerves. He hates this, hates this room, hates anything that reminds him of that horrible day three years ago. 

“Is there anything I can grab?” Chris speaks up from the doorway, voice softened by concern. “He gonna need blue blood, or...?” 

“I don’t believe so,” Molly says. Hank can see the glow of the screen reflected in her glasses. “But actually, would you mind going around and seeing if any other androids require help too? I’d check, but—" 

“No problem. I’ll be back.” Dwindling the room down to three with only two truly present. 

Stepping closer to the bed, Hank bites his lip and hovers. “So, is he...?” 

Without warning, Connor gasps. His eyes slide shut and his body, once stiff and taut with electricity, finally relaxes, the red of his LED no longer flashing but holding steady. Hank feels his heart drop. “What’s happening? Connor?” He tries to get closer, but Molly holds up her hand. 

“It’s all right, Hank,” she soothes. “His programming was essentially stuck in a loop; I just force quit it so it can reset. His stress levels couldn’t lower and were putting unnecessary pressure on his struggling systems, but hopefully they’ll plateau soon. His breathing cycle can now resume and regulate his internal temperature.” 

Hank doesn’t even try to pretend he understands. “So... he’s resting?” 

“Mm... not quite. More like he’s just unconscious now, where before he was pretty much frozen.” 

“Well, at least he looks better than before,” Hank sighs, standing at the foot of the bed. Seeing Connor unmoving is as unnerving as ever, but it helps to not have to see his eyes rolled back in his skull anymore. Giving his partner a proper once-over, he frowns. “His hand—” He points accordingly. “It’s still... clawed.” Palm flat and fingers out, interfacing without a screen. 

“Yes,” Molly replies with her own frown, typing away. “It looks like the shock completely fried the circuits in that hand, so it’s not reacting to my override. He’ll definitely need a replacement.” 

Hank swallows, clenches and unclenches his fists. He remembers, he _has_ to remember that Connor isn’t human—that this isn’t amputation but more like replacing a blown wheel on a car. The comparison makes his stomach turn. “Will that be complicated?” Expensive? Expenses be damned, he’ll pay out of his own pocket to make sure Connor has both hands. Kid can’t manage going a day without flicking that damn coin around. 

Molly hums. He admits her ease with multitasking impresses, focus split between his questions and the laptop. “Hands are generally a universal part on androids and widely interchangeable. I don’t imagine it’ll cause much trouble.” Peering closer at her laptop, she furrows her brow. Hank instantly feels on-edge. 

“What? What is it?” he demands. 

“The amount of damage is just...” She shakes her head. “I don’t understand. The station’s surge protectors must be old to allow such a shock through.” 

Something crawls up his spine, a trickling dread spouts at the base of his nape. “What do you mean ‘this badly’? Is he gonna be all right?” Fuck fuck fuck, this is all too familiar... 

Molly lays out the facts for him. “The damage is definitely serious. His power supply is badly damaged and needs replacing. His battery is also damaged, but thankfully didn’t get hit as hard; his self-repair should be able to fix it with time. Likewise he should be able to heal the arm as well. What relieves me the most is his CPU, however. It suffered only minor damage that he can self-repair. If the shock had fully reached it, he’d likely experience severe impairment of his physical and mental faculties and memory loss.” 

Again, Hank doesn’t comprehend much of what she said, but he hopes he gleaned the right conclusion. “So... he’ll be able to heal everything but the hand and power supply?” 

Molly purses her lips. “In theory, yes.” 

“Only in theory...?” 

“Normally, Connor’s systems would begin self-repair immediately once he sustained an injury,” she explains. “It’s largely an automatic process, though he does have some control over it. But he requires a power supply to redistribute energy to the affected areas. Without a working one, he can’t start to heal himself. And the longer he goes without doing so, the more likely he is to sustain permanent damage.” 

Surely his nails will soon draw blood from his palms. _Permanent damage_ echoes in his head relentlessly. “This power supply...” He can feel a headache coming on. “Is it...?” 

“Also largely universal.” 

_Thank fucking God._

“So we just get one of these power supply replacements and he’ll be fine, right?” He tries to temper his rising hope, no matter how much he wants to embrace it; things are never that easy and there’s always a catch. 

“If everything goes smoothly and Connor begins his healing program soon, then he should be.” Molly sits back in her chair and studies the ceiling in thought. “Now we just need to get him the replacement. Hmm...” 

“You don’t know where to get one?” Hank questions. He hadn’t expected _this_ to be the catch. Molly shoots him a dry smile. 

“I may know a lot about androids, but I can’t possibly know everything.” She folds her arms. “The issue is less about _where_ to get one than _how_ to get one. CyberLife is still caught up in that lawsuit with Jericho about getting the schematics and rights to android parts and biocomponents, and I’m sure you know they’ve been dragging it out as long as they can.” 

Hank snorts. He sure damn does. Watching the news now and then, getting updates from Markus through Connor, puts his temper to the test. Androids only want the rights to their bodies and health and CyberLife is dragging its ass, arguing every minute point. From the proceedings it’s clear the androids will win, eventually, but the company seems determined to only give them the bare minimum kicking and screaming. At the very least, thirium 310 is no longer patented and widely available for purchase. (And thank God, because Connor has a bad habit of being Connor.) 

“We could try arguing the point with them, but I have no clue how long that might take and time isn’t on our side,” Molly continues. She sighs. “Still, I’m not sure where else to obtain new biocomponents since CyberLife issued that recall on all their products and closed shop.” 

Hank closes his eyes in thought, opening them only moments later. “What about Jericho? Connor told me they have a whole area just for fixin’ androids up. That means they must have supplies, right?” 

Molly tilts her head, humming. “It’s... worth a shot at least. Do we have a way to contact them?” 

Hank is already fishing around his pockets. “Yeah, Markus gave me his direct line in case he can’t reach Connor or something happens to him. Kid has some perks, I guess.” His attempt at joviality falls flat even to himself and he swallows, giving Connor’s shin a light, comforting squeeze. Just to let him know he’s there. Just to let _him_ know Connor is still there. 

Walking to the other side of the room, Hank leans against the wall by the door, pressing his phone to his ear as it rings. He doesn’t want to crowd Molly in case she needs to do something, but he refuses to let Connor out of his sight. After a few seconds, a voice answers unencumbered by surrounding noise (because androids take their calls in their goddamn heads and he still isn’t used to that). 

_“Lieutenant Anderson, to what do I owe the pleasure?”_

“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” Hank grumbles. But then, it’s never something good when Hank has to call Markus; it means the kid has gone and gotten himself injured, again, and he needs the advice or help of one of the few other androids he knows. “There was a surge during the storm here at the office while Connor was connected to his computer and it gave him a bad shock.” 

_“Is he all right?”_

Hank appreciates the urgency and concern in his voice. Despite the estrangement Connor confesses to feel regarding Jericho, he clearly has Markus’s friendship and trust. “It fucked him up pretty bad,” Hank grunts, eyes not once leaving Connor. “Fried some parts and completely destroyed one of his hands. Tech says he can self-repair, but he needs a new power supply. Wouldn’t happen to have one lying around, would ya?” 

_“Hmmm...”_ The lack of background noise makes it hard to tell if the call had dropped or Markus is just thinking. _“Our supplies are still rather limited even this long after the Revolution, as I’m sure you can imagine. But it’s a common part and we should have one in the repair bay. I’m just on my way back to New Jericho, but I’ll have Simon take a look around in the meantime.”_

Hank exhales heavily, shoulders dropping. “That’d be great, thanks.” The name ‘Simon’ sounds vaguely familiar. 

_“Of course. You mentioned his hand as well? Which one is damaged?”_

“Uh—” He steps closer to have a look. It’s the right one, no skin but white chassis charred black. It’s a nauseating sight. “Right. The right one.” 

_“Okay. I’ll ask Simon to take a look for one of those too. I’ll call you back when we can locate them.”_

Hank hopes he’ll be receiving a call very, very soon, then. “Thanks again, Markus. You’re a real life-saver.” 

A gentle laugh over the line. _“I try my best, Lieutenant. Tell Connor to hang in there.”_ Followed by a dial-tone. 

He can tell him, Hank thinks despairingly, but he doubts it will even get through to the kid. Sliding his phone back in his pocket, he approaches the bed with caution, afraid to interrupt Molly’s whirlwind of typing. Thankfully, she speaks up first. “So, what’s the verdict?” 

“Said they’ll take a look for it and get back to me.” He suppresses the heavy sigh building in his chest. “Everything still all right? Or stable, I guess?” 

“Yes. I’m just keeping an eye on his systems and vitals.” Molly smiles at him warmly. “Would you like to sit with him?” 

Hank shuffles his feet. “I don’t want to get in the way—” 

“You won’t be. I can set my laptop on the bedside table here, and it’s set to go off if something happens. There’s not much I can do until we get the replacement power supply anyway, so.” She leaves the ‘so you might as well sit with him because I know you’re dying to’ unspoken, a fact he appreciates. Hank nods sharply. 

Once she has the computer secure on the table, Molly relinquishes her seat to him and Hank doesn’t waste a second taking it. He glances at the screen to his side, squinting at the numbers and codes and data he can’t even hope to understand. But no warnings are flashing or sounding, so he takes what little comfort he can from the fact. Molly makes some excuse he barely hears to leave the room—to give them time to be alone, he isn’t stupid. Then he gives his complete focus to the android on the bed. 

“Oh, kid,” Hank whispers. He reaches out to stroke Connor’s hair, mindful of the cord in his neck. “You’re just a magnet for trouble, aren’t ya?” He brushes back that stubborn lock that always falls over his forehead. Unbidden, tears spring to his eyes that he wipes away furiously. “Look at me, gettin’ all teary-eyed over an android.” He chuckles, watery. “What a sap I’ve become...” 

Connor, of course, doesn’t reply—can’t reply. But God Hank wishes he would. He can picture it clearly, those big, brown eyes opening and going warm with concern, no hesitation in showing his affections and worries. He’d probably tell him something about his stress levels and heart rate, and how he’s ‘perfectly functional’ even though he’d just been fucking electrocuted. 

Electrocuted. From the storm he’s waited all month for. He’ll probably be traumatized by lightning now. It would be rational, understandable. But the thought still makes his chest hurt. The kid just wants to see a storm. Why the fuck did this have to happen? To _Connor?_ Hasn’t he suffered enough? 

Hank doesn’t know how long he sits there stroking his hair, watching his LED for any changes while Molly shifts in and out of the room, speaking words he doesn’t truly take in; if it isn’t necessary, he isn’t processing it. He barely processes anything but the android before him, fighting against memories of his little boy laid out in a hospital bed, tubes and wires, dwindling life before him... 

Thankfully his phone going off jars him from his spiralling thoughts. He fishes it from his pocket and answers somewhat hoarsely, “Anderson.” 

_“Hello, Lieutenant Anderson, this is Simon. Markus gave me your number to reach you; I hope that’s all right.”_

“That’s...” Hank licks dry lips. “Yeah, it’s fine. Assume you’re calling about the parts?” They can make introductions and small talk some other, less urgent time. 

_“Yes, you’re right. I managed to find an extra power supply. It’s been used, but it should do the trick.”_

“Used?” Hank frowns. “It’s not damaged, is it?” 

_“Unfortunately, nothing we have here is new. It shows minor signs of wear and it won’t be as efficient as a brand new part, but I assure you it’s enough to get Connor’s self-healing program back on.”_

Hank lets out a long sigh of relief. “Fuckin’ thank God... I can send someone out to come grab it.” 

_“Oh, no, don’t trouble yourself; I fully intended to bring it over. I’d like to check on Connor myself, and so does Markus.”_

“Oh.” He hasn’t considered those at Jericho being overly concerned, but it would make sense for Connor’s friends to care about his well-being. Despite himself, he smiles. “All right, that’d be great, thanks. Hey, did you manage to find—?” 

_“A hand?”_ Does he suddenly sound amused, or is that just him? _“Yes, and in excellent condition, too. We’ll bring it as well.”_

“Thanks. Just...” Hank exhales, suddenly overwhelmed by it all. “ _Thank you_. If you guys didn’t have the part, we didn’t... We weren’t sure...” 

He can hear Simon’s smile over the line. _“Lieutenant Anderson, think nothing of it. Connor is one of us and a friend, and we’ll always do anything in our power to help him. Markus and I should be there in about twenty minutes.”_

“Right. Be careful.” Hank looks at the ceiling, where rain drums on the roof. “It’s a hell of a storm.” 

_“Of course. We’ll see you soon.”_

The line goes dead and Hank lets out another long sigh, as though loosening the pressure valves on his own stress levels. They have the hand, they have the power supply—Connor will be okay. He needs to remind himself that over and over. _Connor will be okay._ This isn’t three years ago. This isn’t... 

“Help’s coming, Connor,” Hank murmurs, gently, gently taking the android’s good hand. The body heat reassures, but only just; the paleness of his artificial skin, the ominous crimson of his LED, still leaves him antsy. He rubs his thumb over the back of Connor’s hand. “Just hang on a little while more, okay? Help’s coming, I promise. You’ll be okay.” 

_You have to be._

He’s just shifting his position in the seat, ready to settle in by Connor’s side until the parts arrive, when a knock comes at the door and Fowler steps inside. “I spoke with Stewart, but thought I’d check in on him myself,” he says quietly, coming beside Hank. His eyes scan the laptop screen, and Hank wonders if his old friend understands any more of it than he does. “How is he?” 

Crossing his arms, Hank sighs. “It’s... not great.” A fucking understatement, but if Jeffrey already spoke with Molly, there’s no point in recounting everything. “She says he should be fine, but he needs some new parts. Just got off the phone with Markus and them, they’ve got what he needs and are on their way.” 

Jeff lets out his own sigh, one of relief. “Well, thank God for that.” He shoots Hank a side-glance with a hint of a smirk. “Never thought I’d see Hank Anderson with an android leader on speed-dial.” 

Hank snorts. “Yeah, yeah, fuck off.” 

From the hallway, someone calls for the captain, and the man rolls his eyes. “Can’t step away for one goddamn minute,” he grumbles. “Better get back to it.” Jeffrey pats him affably on the shoulder. “He’ll be okay, Hank. You know the kid refuses to stay down. He’s nearly as stubborn as you.” 

Hank offers a weak smile, but it falls when he turns back to Connor. “Yeah...” 

“Really, Hank.” A comforting squeeze, rare in its open tenderness. “He’s gonna be fine.” Another pat and the man turns to leave. “If he needs anything—if _you_ need anything—don’t be afraid to ask. Okay?” 

“Got it,” Hank grunts. 

He hears Fowler exchange words with Molly as they move past each other through the door, the latter closing it lightly behind her with her foot. “Sorry to take so long,” she says. “Chris got back to me and I had a couple stops to make around the precinct.” 

“Everything all right?” Hank asks, hand still entwined with Connor’s. “Anyone else hurt?” 

“A few minor electrical burns on humans and androids alike. Nothing to serious, but it’ll sting for sure.” Coming up behind him, Molly peers down at the laptop screen and hums. “Fortunately no other androids were interfacing when the power surged. Did you manage to reach Jericho?” 

“Yeah, they’re on their way with the parts. Should be here any minute.” 

“That’s a relief.” Is it fucking ever. “All right, I should probably get him ready then, if you’d step aside for a sec.” 

Reluctantly, Hank releases his grip on Connor’s limp hand and gets to his feet, shuffling out of the way but not out of reach of the android. “Get him ready?” 

“For the part swapping,” she clarifies, taking her seat back. She double-checks the screen, nods to herself, and carefully pulls Connor’s white dress-shirt up to his shoulders, revealing smooth, unblemished skin. With practised expertise, Molly presses a finger over Connor’s red LED ring at the same time she lays a hand flat in the middle of his torso. To Hank’s astonishment, the projected artificial skin disappears, revealing white chassis in a wide circle around her hand. 

“Jesus, it’s that easy?” he scoffs. “Just touch the light and no more skin?" 

“Basically,” the technician smiles. “Androids were made with easy-access in mind in case of repairs. And by sliding this part up here...” As she did accordingly, the chassis disappears entirely, revealing the inner workings of _Connor’s fucking abdomen._ Holy _shit._ “There you have it.” 

“Oh my God,” Hank breathes, eyes wide. He knows it’s different for androids, he _knows_ it is, but that’s still his close friend’s organs—er, biocomponents—exposed to the world. And Connor hadn’t even twitched. Fuck, what even _is_ his life anymore? 

He really doesn’t want to look, but finds his eyes taking it in anyway, curving around every man-made cylinder, ever gear, every shape of plastic or metal or whatever the fuck androids are made of. Hell, he can even see the blue ‘veins’ full of thirium running to and around each part. And as his eyes travel upwards, the damage from the shock becomes obvious. 

Beneath a cylindrical plug and just above what looks like goddamn mechanical lungs rests a small, flat cube, half of it scorched black, the other half a blood red in contrast to the healthy blue of the other biocomponents. Hank sees other charred parts here and there, but nothing compares to what has to be the destroyed power supply. Sure enough, Molly confirms his assumption seconds later. 

“Here is the damaged power supply.” She points to the part. “And right above here is the thirium pump regulator.” A gesture to the cylindrical plug. 

Hank blinks. “And that does...?” 

“It regulates an android’s thirium pump, which is right here.” Her finger moves to the upper left of Connor’s torso, to a more circular part which appears to be moving every few seconds. 

“Which is...?” 

“His heart, essentially.” 

Holy _fuck._

Disturbed, Hank just stands there, watching his partner’s heart beat before him. The damage seems much worse now, knowing how close it had gotten to such vital parts; a bit farther up and Connor might’ve just died. He swallows, clenches at his hands again. No, they have parts on the way, parts to fix him. Connor won’t die. He _isn’t dying._

“Now,” Molly continues, oblivious to his inner struggle, “I’m just going to remove the power supply, so I can swap it as soon as the new one arrives.” And, casual as can be, she does just that, reaching inside his partner’s chest and taking out the scorched biocomponent with some careful finagling. The small part smells faintly like melted plastic. After one more quick look through Connor’s biocomponents, Molly closes his abdomen and lets his skin projection slide back over. 

Hell of a lot more efficient than human surgery, that’s for sure. 

“I’ll remove the hand afterwards,” Molly says, getting up to place the damaged biocomponent in a small bag she withdraws from the cupboard. “I could’ve waited for the power supply as well, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to double-check the rest of his abdominal biocomponents while we’re waiting.” She stores the sealed part away. “And I could—” 

A brisk knock interrupts their one-sided conversation. Molly answers the door and to Hank’s utmost relief, it is indeed Markus and Simon (well, he assumes the blond android’s this Simon). Markus, even soaked and face knit with concern, still stands an imposing figure, framed by that familiar drenched trench coat, but Simon seems quieter by his side, walking calmly behind his leader as the former sweeps in. 

The technician makes brief introductions with the two newcomers, though their focus is clearly more on the injured android lying in bed; still, they’re much more polite and cordial than Hank would be if some stranger was standing between him and Connor. Simon hands over a small metal box he assumes contains the parts to Molly, while Markus comes over to greet him. 

“Lieutenant Anderson.” He offers a tight-lipped nod, only glancing away from Connor for a second. “How is he?” 

“Just call me Hank, kid,” Hank sighs. He’s done a lot of sighing today. “And he’s hanging in there. Been out since he got shocked.” 

“Understandable, after such an injury. But hopefully, he’ll be on the path to recovery soon enough.” He offers Hank a warm, comforting smile Hank can barely bother to try returning. “Oh, and this is Simon—” At his name, the android wraps up his chat with Molly and comes to stand beside Markus. 

“Which I assume you’ve already inferred,” Simon smiles. He holds out a hand that Hank shakes on auto-pilot. Do androids usually shake hands, or is it just for this old human’s sake? “But I am happy to meet you in person, Lieutenant An—er, _Hank._ ” As his eyes trail over to Connor, his smile slips. “I only wish it were under better circumstances...” 

_You and me both._ Hank gives a sharp nod, more a jerk of the head. “Agreed.” He knows he doesn’t have his best manners on right now, but he’s worried and impatient and the parts are finally here and introductions are the farthest thing from his mind. Despite himself, he makes an effort. “Thanks again. For the, uh, parts. I’m sure you two are busy.” 

“At all times,” Simon replies cheerfully. “But never too busy for a friend in need.” 

“Speaking of help—” Molly breaks into their little circle, comically tiny between them. She holds a small, grey flat cube in her hands, what Hank assumes to be the new power supply. “What’s say we get this part in the patient?”  
The three part for her, scrambling out of the way with little grace. But Hank rubbernecks regardless, no desire to see Connor opened up again but feeling it’s his responsibility to be there. The kid in general is his unofficial responsibility, declared by no one else but himself. He’s fully capable, of course, an actual killing machine, but he’s also young, so painfully young, and naive and unassuming and new to it all. He needs someone to guide him through the more nuanced aspects of life, to help him sort through all these new feelings humans have years to cope with. 

He’s probably the last teacher for the job, but, well, here he is. 

Once more with disquieting ease, Molly reveals Connor’s inner workings; Hank catches Markus wince and Simon shift uncomfortably at the damage present. The technician carefully, carefully fits the new power supply into the emptied slot. She double-checks, prods and pokes it, making sure it’s in securely, before nodding to herself and sealing Connor back up. His LED, before stuck in that unnerving, flashing red, now turns to a spinning yellow and settles to a solid colour. 

Molly’s eyes flick to her laptop screen and a soft smile graces her lips. “Connor’s systems accepted the part and have already begun distributing power to his injuries,” she announces, turning to face them. 

All this worry, this nauseating, heart-clenching concern, for a problem solved in less than ten seconds. Maybe Hank should be more embarrassed by his panic, but his relief is too immense to allow it room. Connor _had_ been seriously injured, he tells himself, even if the solution seemed so simple. Hank finally exhales the breath he’s been holding. “Thank God...” 

Simon shoots him a sympathetic look and Markus smiles—at Hank’s relief, Connor’s improving condition, or both, he can’t say. But before he can truly relish in the weight off his shoulders, Molly is already moving Connor’s stiff arm to remove his burnt hand. It comes off so damn easily, and he’s not sure if that’s because she has the technical knowledge or it’s so damaged it was about to fall off regardless. Hank tries not to look at it sitting on the counter as Molly grabs the new one. The room still reeks of melted plastic. 

If someone was just casually carrying around a severed human hand, he’d probably feel more uneasy, but without the artificial skin, android hands look just like mannequin ones, smooth and white. Replacing the hand takes a bit longer than the power supply, but compared to human surgery, it’s stupidly quick. As the technician secures the hand into place, Hank watches it come to life: artificial skin flowing over the chassis, nails, intentionally-placed wrinkles in just the right places to look human while still visually appealing. With how human deviants seemed, it’s easy to forget they’re an entirely different species. Do androids count as a species? 

This new hand does not claw out like the old one, falling lax by Connor’s side as it should, and Molly looks to take this as success. “And there you have it! A brand new hand, all good to go.” 

Hank resists slumping to the ground from the emotional exhaustion of the day, while Markus thankfully continues the conversation because he’s got no idea where this goes from here. “Do you think it’s wise to reboot him, just to make sure everything’s going all right? After he’s had some time to rest, of course.” 

Molly rubs her chin, looking Connor over thoughtfully. “Yeah, I’m thinking the same thing. I’ll give him half an hour before waking him. It’s possible he might wake up on his own before then anyway.” 

Wake up on his own within thirty minutes after having an organ ripped out and replaced. Grateful as he is ( _so_ fucking grateful), Hank still scoffs. Androids. He clears his throat. “Will he be, uh, all right to wake up so soon? Like, won’t he be in pain...?” 

From what he’s gathered, pain is... complicated for deviants. Some get it and some don’t, and the intensity of the pain is all over the place: what might leave one android bawling could be nothing more than a paper cut to another. How any of this is possible, he’s got no clue, but there’s a lot of shit that should be impossible when it comes to deviants he’s given up trying to understand. All he knows for sure is that _Connor_ feels pain (something the little bugger tried to hide from him until the day a suspect got in a good punch to the face; something about “not wishing to cause him any undue concern”, when all the kid _does_ is cause him concern). He also knows they don’t make android pain killers, not yet at least, and if they can avoid having Connor go through unnecessary pain, he’ll take it. 

“It’s possible,” Simon says, face pinched in a way that means he’s not happy with the decision either. “But it might be for the best to take precaution and have him up, if only for a few minutes. If it’s too much, we can always put him back into stasis.” 

“Yes,” Markus nods, looking solemn. “It’s also best if we’re here when he wakes, in case anything comes up that requires an android’s assistance.” 

‘An android’s assistance’. Like there aren’t four others working around the building. Hank knows the two just want to see Connor open his eyes as much as he does. But he admits he does feel marginally better knowing they’re here, ready to help. That anyone is here to help Connor, because he sure as shit doesn’t know how. 

After this, he vows, he’s gonna learn more about android anatomy. Even if he has to sit through Connor’s verbose lectures to do so. 

Hank grimaces at their verdict, but doesn’t object; if Molly isn’t, he feels less cause for concern. Still, he’ll make sure to be right by Connor’s side when he comes around. 

So he spends the next ten minutes shooting the shit with the two androids as Molly monitors Connor’s condition, adding only the odd comment here or there. With Connor finally having the part he needs, Hank can focus easier on small talk. He learns a bit about current affairs in Jericho, but somehow the conversation drifts to more personal matters. He learns that Simon likes to sew as a hobby, and runs a group every Sunday for beginners and experts alike. Markus stops by on occasion, and while he can sew, his true interest lies in art and painting. Knowing Markus’s former owner was one Carl Manfred through Connor, Hank isn’t surprised. 

They’re just discussing getting them to meet this ‘Sumo’ Connor is apparently always going on about when said android stirs. Hank may not have super enhanced robo-senses, but he’s the first to notice Connor’s fingers twitch in the corner of his eye. He immediately drops the conversation in lieu of spinning to face him and gently taking his hand. He registers Markus and Simon move closer in behind him, Molly hovering off to the side, silently observing. 

“Connor?” Hank calls. “Connor, can you hear me?” 

Connor’s lip twitches. His eyes clench, then relax. His brow curves inward. Hank lightly squeezes his hand, anticipation rising within him. “Connor? Open your eyes, son. It’s okay now.” 

He’s close, _so close_ to waking up, and the wait is killing him. Hank wants to shake the boy until he comes to, but he knows that can do more harm than good. So he’s forced to be patient (and Connor knows he _hates_ to be patient). Those closed eyes twitch some more and, at long last, slowly open. 

Hank could bawl with relief. 

“Hey,” he intones, giving his best comforting smile. He watches as Connor’s eyes move around the ceiling, as he comes back to himself, and keeps things simple to not overwhelm him. “There he is. You really worried us there, kid.” 

Connor doesn’t respond, but that’s not unexpected; he’s not gonna rush someone who just got fucking electrocuted. But something’s wrong. Because in those widening eyes, where there should be clarity or even confusion, there’s instead growing fear. Panic. His pupils dart rapidly around the room, his breathing picks up dramatically. Icy dread grips Hank’s heart, and he tightens his hold on his hand, leaning in closer. “Connor? Connor, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?” 

This doesn’t seem like pain, but he might as well ask; though it makes little difference as Connor still never replies, never once looks his way. 

“Connor?” Markus calls. He steps beside Hank and reaches out, hand bleeding away to white. “Hey, it’s me, Connor, it’s Markus. You’re safe, you’re all right. Can we interface and you can show me what’s—” 

But he can’t finish his sentence because suddenly, Connor _screams._

Screams like he’s dying, screams like he’s being fucking ripped apart, screams until static edges into his voice like audio spiking on a recording. It’s so raw, so terrified and _human_ , and the sound is like a punch in Hank’s gut. He’s barely heard Connor shout, let alone scream. It’s a sound he never thought he’d hear from the boy, and one he never wants to hear again. 

Connor pulls his hand away from Hank’s to claw at his hair until he draws blue blood, screaming all the while. Hank shoots to his feet, knocking the chair behind him in a jarring clang, and tries to wrangle those hands away by his wrists. “Connor! _Connor, stop!”_ But stopping an android hell-bent on self-harm is no easy task and he can barely hold him in place. 

“Fuck, his stress levels are at ninety-five percent!” Molly swears, rushing around the bed to the laptop. In the chaos, Hank hadn’t even registered the shrill beeping from the computer, alarms going crazy. She types at the keyboard, then swears again, louder. “I can’t put him in stasis, his systems are overriding the command—” 

“We’ll try,” Markus says breathlessly. He and Simon grab at Connor’s arms until they’ve got his sleeves down, exposing enough skin to interface, and Hank prays it works because he can barely keep Connor from tearing his scalp out and he can’t take the screaming, he just won’t stop _screaming—_

But the two androids rip their white hands away, fruitless. “His firewalls are too secure, he’s taking our attempts as attacks,” Simon explains tersely. “We can’t put him in stasis until he calms down.” 

But that’s how they were _gonna_ make him fucking calm down, because clearly words aren’t getting through. Connor’s LED is a bright blood red and Hank swears he’ll go deaf soon. Desperate, terrified, and bottomless in his affection, Hank releases his hold to take Connor’s face between his hands and make him look him in the eye. 

“Connor.” He tries to keep the quiver from his voice. “ _Look_ at me.” 

For a fraction of a second, those frantic brown eyes pause on his own before darting about again. Hank can work with a second, he’s worked with less. “Connor.” Still firm, but something tenderer: affectionate instruction, fatherly care. “Hey. Look at me, kid. Look me in the eye. I know you can do it.” 

As they make contact again, it lingers, and the screaming, blessedly, cuts out. There’s a glazed look in Connor’s eye, like he’s seeing something entirely different than his work partner. He’s still gasping, shaking all over, a whine building in his throat Hank tries to quiet before he reaches another fever-pitch. “Hey. Hey hey hey. Shhh, Connor. It’s okay. It’s okay now. Everything’s all right.” 

The eyes wander again, aborted shouts rise and fall on his lips. Each time Connor drifts, Hank pulls him back with gentle words and redirection. “Over here, kiddo. Just keep looking at me. Yeah, just like that. You’re doing great. You just keep looking at me, and I’ll do the rest.” 

He hasn’t used this tone in years. This low, soothing voice, sanding off the edges of his gruff baritone into something buzzing and warm. This voice just for Cole, after a nightmare or during a crying fit that just won’t settle. Something he buried with his son and unearthed without missing a beat. Like an instinct he couldn’t drown in alcohol despite his efforts. 

Connor’s screams die into quivering whimpers. Twin transparent-blue streaks of liquid escape his eyes that Hank brushes away with his thumbs. It doesn’t seem like he still completely recognizes anyone in front of him, but there’s a hint of awareness there. Beneath the panic, there’s something like hope. When he finally speaks, it’s through static, it warbles like a scratched record, it’s choking on fear and the risk to believe— 

_“H-Hank?”_

And Hank nearly loses his composure right there. 

“Yeah, kid,” he swallows, still keeping that tender hold on Connor’s face. “I’m right here, I’ve got you. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, okay?” Echoes of a similar reminder, a failed promise to a different boy, ring in his ears—but he will not break his word this time. 

Beside him, Molly whispers by his ear. “His stress levels are lowering. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.” 

No one needs to tell him twice. Hank continues to wipe away at those tears, to murmur soft, warm reassurances, and while it does seem to be helping, Connor is still wide-eyed and shivering, breaths off-kilter, lips quivering with the threat to sob at any moment. Those frightened eyes seem to look right through him. What the hell is the kid seeing that’s terrifying him _this_ much? 

“Connor,” Hank intones, waiting until Connor looks in his general direction before speaking again. “Can you tell me what’s going on? What do you see right now?” 

Connor swallows, visibly gulps, and takes a few staggered breaths. “B-B-Blood,” he gasps. 

Hank frowns. “Blood?” 

“S-She’s dead.” 

“She? Who’s dead?” 

A weak, keening sound that hurts his chest. Hank leans in closer. “Connor, who is dead?” 

“T-The pictures!” Connor wails. “I can’t—I-I can’t see, static, b-blood, it’s red, I h-hate red, I hate it!” 

_Pictures—?_

“Con, Con, shh, shh,” Hank hushes. The kid is working himself up into hysterics again and he can’t let him go back to that state. “It’s okay, everything’s okay. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. Okay? It can’t hurt you.” 

Closing his eyes, Connor whimpers. “N-Not real...?” 

“Not real. I promise.” He’s not sure how much Connor can understand like this, but maybe he can get through to him with some facts. “There was a surge of lightning earlier, while you were interfacing with your computer. Gave you quite a shock and fucked you up, must’ve messed with your eyes too. But we’re fixing it, okay? You’re gonna be okay, Connor.” 

“Hank,” Connor chokes, “I’m s-scared.” 

_“Dad, I’m scared!”_

The tears he’s barely been holding back finally escape. It’s too similar, it’s too similar. The only thing keeping him from breaking down completely is knowing Connor needs him. “I know,” Hank manages. “I-I know, kid. But I’m right here.” 

A shaky hand reaches up and for a moment Hank fears Connor’s going back to tearing at his hair, but it takes a different direction. This time his fingers settle over Hank’s still gently holding the android’s face and curl. Getting the hint, Hank moves his own hand to grasp Connor’s, fingers intertwining. He gives a light, comforting squeeze. Connor’s LED returns to yellow. 

“ _Stay,_ ” he pleads, voice barely a whisper. 

“Yeah. Of course. Always, Con.” 

That appears to be enough to let Connor rest. His eyes, still squeezed shut, relax, and the tight, almost painful grip around Hank’s hand loosens. All the tension bleeds from his body as his breathing calms. In seconds, he’s back asleep. 

Hank leans over the garbage can and vomits. 


	2. Chapter 2

To everyone’s credit, they give him about ten minutes to process everything and gather his bearings. He spends all of it remaining by Connor’s side and nothing short of the building catching fire could make him let go of his hand. People murmur around him: he catches Jeffrey’s questions, a concerned comment from Chris—with that screaming the whole damn department had to be outside the door—and someone discretely hands him a tissue and wet wipe that he numbly takes. He uses the wipe to clean the thirium raked from the Connor’s skull and fingertips and the tissue to dry his tear tracks. For his own, he crudely rubs his sleeve across his eyes.

Hank feels wrung out, used up. He’s dying for a drink. But that can wait.

“Hank?” Markus quietly prompts.

The day’s not done with him yet.

Repressing an umpteenth sigh, Hank nods. “Yeah.”

The door shuts behind him, sealing the room back into silence; Hank’s grateful Molly could deal with the rabble because he’s not sure he would’ve been able to. She drifts to his side to examine Connor, expression pensive. She glances at the laptop. “His stress levels have returned to normal,” she explains, gently. “As well as his temperature. He’s all right.”

“That was not _all right_ ,” Hank growls, forcing anger to cover the roughness in his voice. It doesn’t work. “That was... it was...”

Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. He hasn’t been that scared in a while.

“What the _fuck_ just happened, Molly?” He finally tears his eyes away from Connor to look at her properly, all aggression and authority to mask his fear. “I thought you said his CPU suffered only ‘minor damage’. That sure as hell didn’t look ‘minor’!”

Molly isn’t cowed. She just sighs. “It _is_ minor, Hank. Granted, minor damage to the CPU is usually worse than, let’s say, an arm, but nothing like this should have happened. To cause such a level of... visual distortion, I just don’t understand.”

“He mentioned blood,” Simon pipes up. Hank nearly forgot he’s there. He turns to look at the blond, hand still awkwardly entwined with Connor’s. The two Jericho leaders appear disquieted, but more composed than he feels. “And static. But he also mentioned ‘pictures’. What pictures?”

In his panic over Connor’s state, Hank had discarded his mental connection in lieu of helping the kid. Now the idea rushes back. “Pictures,” he mutters to himself. “The last pictures he’d’ve seen would’ve been the ones connected to our current case.”

“Your case?” Markus prods.

“Yeah. Double homicide by a suspected android, a young woman and a her mother. Pretty gruesome crime scene.” Enough to haunt even a grizzled old cop like himself in the middle of the night. “’A course he coulda meant entirely different pictures, but I’ve got no fucking clue then.”

Simon brings a hand up to his chin, blue eyes sharp and analytical. “These pictures must be digital, I assume, or at least the copies Connor was looking at. Looking at on his computer...” He looks over at Markus, gaze significant, and evidently Markus catches his drift because his eyes widen.

“While interfacing,” he breathes. Molly also takes a sharp inhale. Hank looks wildly between the three, feeling out-of-the-loop and increasingly on-edge.

“What? What the hell does that mean?” he barks.

“It’s just a theory,” says Molly. “But given that Connor was interfacing when he was shocked, while working on that case, it’s possible some... wires got crossed, so to speak. His eyes suffered no damage, so it has to be an issue with his CPU.”

“So—what? He was seeing those pictures?”

“Possibly,” Simon speaks up, lips pinched in a pensive frown. “Though they could have been twisted, distorted, overlaying the world or influencing what he was seeing around him in an infinite number of ways. Anything’s possible.”

“But whatever he was seeing,” Markus intones, looking at his prone friend with open concern. He steps closer to the bed once more. “It certainly seemed to terrify—...” A furrow appears between his brow, and he tilts his head in a way that reminds Hank of Connor. “Hm.”

In an instant Hank has his eyes back on his partner, scrutinizing him for any changes. “What? What ‘hm’? What is it?”

Markus gestures at their joined hands, expression thoughtful. “His hand. He’s deactivated the skin.”

Hank raises their joined hands, incredulous until he actually _looks_. He’s had his fingers so tightly wrapped around Connor’s he never even noticed, but it’s true: white chassis, paler in contrast to his own peach skin. What in the hell...?

“He’s trying to interface with you,” Simon clarifies, peaking around his shoulder.

Molly hums. “Huh. Interesting.”

Does anyone actually _explain_ things around here, or does he have to pull out the answers like teeth? Hank breathes in deeply through his nose, trying to temper his rising impatience. “Why would he being trying to interface with me? I’m human.”

“Interfacing can be rather... ‘subconscious’ sometimes,” Markus explains. “We use it for transferring information, yes, but we also use it for support, to share memories, to let others feel how we are feeling. We can even directly transfer positive feelings if another android needs them. The act can be casual or intimate, depending on the context.” He smiles suddenly, but there’s something sad about it. “Even though you’re human, Hank, his instinct might be to seek comfort in the most fundamental way an android can. That Connor is trying to interface when he’s not even awake is a testament to the trust he has in you.”

Hank blinks, taking in this deluge of information, and looks down at the android he’s come to see as his closest friend. The person he trusts most. Yet the fact that Connor apparently extends that trust towards him as well is just... not exactly unbelievable. He lives at his house, knows he’ll have his back out on cases, so there has to be some level of trust at least.

But to trust him enough to let him wander through his head while he’s unaware, explore his memories, do whatever seriously personal stuff androids do while interfacing? To seek out his comfort even while unconscious, after just rejecting the same support from his friends that could actually provide it?

Well... maybe that does something to his old heart.

Hank clears his (suddenly tight) throat. “Yeah, well... What can we do about this?”

“Nothing.”

He looks sharply to the technician, who’s returned to the laptop. “The fuck you mean nothing?”

“His self-repair program is already working on his CPU,” Molly explains. He watches her scroll down a long page of tiny numbers. “It’s best to let his systems run their course. I may understand android anatomy, but even I’d be a bit nervous to work directly on what’s essentially their brain. One mistake could make things worse.”

“Yeah? And if he freaks out again when he wakes up?”

“Then he’d likely need to come to Jericho,” Simon pipes up, softly. “Where our technicians can give him the help he needs. Until then, I am inclined to agree with Ms. Stewart: it’s best to let him rest and hope he can mend the issue himself.”

The urge to swing his weight around grows with each passing second. Wait? They want him to just wait and hope Connor doesn’t wake up screaming? He can’t take that again. He really can’t; he already knows he’s gonna have nightmares for weeks from last time. He never wants to hear his partner in such terror again.

But he knows pretty much jack shit about androids, so what can he really do? If an actual android technician and an android himself think this is the best course of action, he can’t fight that. Even though he really, really wants to. Problems he can’t yell or punch or shoot his way out of aren’t exactly his forte. God, he just wants to take the kid home.

Hank exhales, his shoulders slumping as he folds in on himself, as the fight goes out of him. “So we just... let ‘im sleep?”

“It’s our best bet,” Markus says. He places a hand on Hank’s shoulder. “I have faith Connor will be all right, Hank. He’s one of the strongest androids I know.”

Hank knows he means well. They all mean well. But even the strongest men can fall, just like that. Androids may be more resilient than humans, but they’re not invincible, and if the universe shows no mercy on a young child, then it won’t share restraint for Connor either.

But Hank just nods, leans back in his seat, and settles in for however long he needs to, Connor’s hand in his all the while. For the first time, he wishes he were an android, if only to send Connor all the warmth and comfort he needs to feel safe while he recovers. He’ll have to settle for simple human contact and pray it’s enough.

* * *

The hours pass by in a daze, and Hank finds himself drifting from time to time, chin dropping to his chest only to jerk back up; the last thing he wants is for Connor to wake up alone. But after the emotional upheaval of the day, sleep grows increasingly hard to resist. He thinks he ends up nodding off for twenty minutes, but he can’t tell and doesn’t care enough to check his phone. The storm doesn’t subdue, but eases over time, the rain steady but not torrential, thunder farther in the distance.

Markus and Simon had stuck around for another forty minutes before duty called at Jericho. Though hesitant to leave their friend, there wasn’t much more they could do at the moment, and Hank urged them to go, tend to the situation while Hank tended to Connor. He promises to call them if anything, _anything_ at all comes up. Their concern and loyalty inspire a fleeting sense of warmth.

He sees Molly less, but she does stop in from time to time, just to check on her patient. The repairs are progressing, apparently, and she has little cause for concern that he’s not improving. Which helps him mentally, it really does, he just... wants to take the kid home already. Get the hell out of here and escape all the memories it dregs up.

He just wants Connor to wake up. And it looks like for once, the android actually decides to do what he wants. Because he stirs.

Suddenly wide awake, Hank leans in closer, watching Connor’s eyes twitch. He lays a light hand on his forehead, hoping the weight might help ground him. Connor shifts his head to the right, his lips parting slightly. “Con?” Hank calls, gentle as can be. He needs to make him feel safe coming around.

At last, Connor’s eyes slide open, brown irises tired and dazed. His pupils expand and shrink, focusing like camera lenses. “Connor?” Hank tries again. Those eyes drift up to meet his, and while the android still seems out of sorts, there’s awareness there, recognition instead of fear. When he speaks, it’s hoarse and fuzzy on the edges with static,

“Hank...?”

But oh, so wonderful.

Hank laughs, though there’s nothing funny, and maybe there’s a hysterical bent to it, relief so potent it might be madness, but that’s okay. He keeps his hand on Connor’s forehead. “Yeah, kid, it’s me. You’re all right.”

(Connor never asked, but the answer’s not really for him anyway.)

Connor struggles to sit up, only managing a second or two before falling back down with a wince. “Hey, hey,” Hank chides, pressing on his forehead as if that can keep him still. “What do ya think you’re doing? Just relax a minute.”

“I’was,” Connor slurs, “I-I was—was—”

“Woah, hey—” The last thing they need is Connor working himself up into another frenzy. He shifts his hand back to his hair, running his fingers through soothingly. “Shh. It’s all right, don’t worry. Just breathe.”

So Connor does and it’s even, calm enough to set Hank more at ease. He keeps stroking his hair, but when Connor looks ready to fall back asleep, he stops to lightly pat his cheek. “Come on now, kid. Eyes open.”

However lethargically, Connor obliges, blinking up at him through exhaustion. “Tired,” he croaks.

“I bet. What else? You hurtin’ at all?”

Connor responds after a momentary pause; maybe he should stop asking so many questions at once before the kid blows a fuse. “Sore.”

If the kid’s only sore after being electrocuted, he’ll count his blessings. Before he can say anything else, Connor raises his arm, the limb trembling with exertion, and squints at their joined hands with obvious confusion. “Oh, uh—” Hank lets him go, face warm. “Sorry, I was just, y’know—”

But Connor grabs his hand back. Hank blinks. “... Connor?”

“I-I don’t mind,” the android stammers, not meeting his eyes. “I... please, I...”

“All right, kid.” He squeezes his hand, pats the top of his head. Connor relaxes, looking at him gratefully. It’s not like Hank cares; he wants to keep the boy close anyway, know that he’s safe. Alive. Connor’s hand is still white in his own, and maybe Markus’s idea that it’s subconscious doesn’t seem so far-fetched. Again, he finds himself wishing he could interface, could provide that comfort. He’ll have to settle for holding him tight.

“Anything else?” Hank prods. “We, uh, had to swap out your power supply and replace your right hand. Everything feel fine there?”

Connor pauses and looks at the ceiling as he seems to take internal stock. “The—the—the p-parts are a-adequate.” There’s still that electronic buzz underlining his words; it kinda reminds Hank of those old voice synthesizers smokers with throat cancer got. Connor’s eyes drift back to him, bleary. “I was—shocked...?”

“Yeah, kid. Power surged while you were connected to the computer.” He wonders how much he recalls. “Knocked you out cold and fried some parts, but you’ll be okay.” Because that’s what Molly said. Right? And Connor isn’t screaming in terror anymore, so his CPU must’ve repaired somewhat by now and he’s on the road to recovery. Right?

God, he hopes so.

Connor stares at him blankly, and he’ll probably have to explain this again later because who knows how much is actually getting through. Smiling weakly, Hank pats his cheek. “Don’t worry. You’re gonna be fine.”

“Is that talking I hear? Is our patient up?”

The technician returns to the room with a bright smile. She drifts to the bedside, scans Connor over with a critical eye. “I’m glad to see you awake, Connor. We were worried. How are you feeling?”

“Ah...” Blinking slowly, Connor struggles for words for several seconds. “T-Tired. And. Achy.”

“Any burning sensations in your chest? How’s the new hand feel?”

“No.” Hank sees him glance down at his free hand and flex his fingers. “I-It feels—feels fine.” Connor offers Molly a weak, wobbly smile. “T-Thank you, Ms. Stewart. For—for—for—”

“Easy, kid,” Hank murmurs, patting his shoulder. “She gets it. Don’t short-circuit on us.”

“You’re welcome, of course,” Molly says, “but it was really Hank who saved the day here.”

He snorts. “Yeah, right. I didn’t do shit, just made a call. It was Jericho that came through.”

Glancing between them, Connor frowns. “... J-Jericho?”

“Yeah. We didn’t really know how to get replacement parts for you, so I gave Markus a call. He and that Simon kid managed to find some used stuff and brought it over, thank fucking God.” If they hadn’t had the parts...

Once again Connor tries to sit up, but this time Hank helps him, easing him back against the wall. “M-Markus? Simon?” He looks around the room, disoriented. “W-Where—”

“They had to head back,” Hank supplies. “Left about... two hours ago. They stuck around a bit after you...”

The android gives him his undivided attention, those big brown eyes full of confusion. “A-After I...?”

Molly, who’d been scrolling through her laptop while keeping an open ear, speaks up. “Connor, do you remember waking up here earlier?”

“I-I...” His brow curves inward. “I’m not... sure...”

“Well, you had a bit of an... issue,” she continues delicately; Hank considers that a massive understatement. “It seems with your CPU.”

This only deepens his confusion. “Issue...?”

Hank may as well bite the bullet and save them all the time because Connor, even in this state, won’t let this go until he knows—it’s in his very nature. He pats his hand to get his attention once more, lowers his voice and puts on a calm disposition. “You were screaming, Connor,” he simply says. “At the top of your lungs.” A shiver runs down his back at the memory. “You weren’t making much sense, but sounded like you were seein’ things. Eventually you nodded back off.”

He watches this new information sink in, sees his eyes glaze over as he probably scans his memories. And then a hitch in his breath and he tenses, LED red. “I-I...” Connor buries his face in his hands. His shoulders begin to shake. Hank realizes, with a pit in his stomach, he’s starting to cry.

“Hey hey, it’s all right,” Hank soothes, drawing the deviant into his arms. Connor doesn’t fight him. “It’s all right, you’re okay. Whatever happened is over now.”

“I-It was horrible,” Connor chokes, gasping against his chest. “E-E-Everything was distor—distor—di _storted_ , a-and glitching, and the, t-the blood, y-you were c-covered, s-so much, I-I—”

Fuck, he’s working himself up again. Hank tightens his hold and gently rocks him, an act so instinctive he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “I know, kid. Take a deep breath, okay?”

Connor wraps his arms around his back, shuddering into his shirt. Hank shoots Molly a pointed glance that she thankfully understands. She nods, looking at the android with sympathy. “I’ve just got to step out a moment, excuse me—” With that she’s out the door. Not the smoothest departure, but at least they’ve got some privacy now.

“Just you and me, kid,” Hank intones, brushing back his hair. “ Connor, you gotta breathe. Inhale, exhale. Okay? Inhale.”

A sharp intake of air.

“And exhale.”

A wobbly breath out.

“Inhale...”

A few minutes of this back-and-forth has Connor more or less breathing steadily again. He shakily wipes at his eyes while Hank rubs soothing circles on his back. “I—I a-apologize, Lieutenant.”

Hank shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Feel better?”

Connor nods., though he hardly looks much better, pale and exhausted, fear still lingering in his eyes. “I—I-I am sorry, though,” he continues, “For—for, for scaring you e-earlier. I don’t know why I was—s-so much blood, a-and I c-couldn’t stop screaming, I—”

“You were scared, Connor,” Hank says softly. “No, terrified. And people often freak out when they’re so afraid, so no one blames ya.”

“No one...?” Glancing at the door, Connor seems to damn well _blush_ , cheeks taking on a bluish hue. He groans into his hands. “E-Everyone must have—have—have heard me.”

Seeing the normally composed android so embarrassed brings the first sense of humour Hank’s felt since Connor went down and he chuckles, though not unkindly, patting him on the shoulder. “Maybe a few—okay, yeah, everyone. But no one’s laughing at you, they’re just concerned.”

Connor frowns. It’s suspiciously close to a pout. “Y-You are.”

His lips quirk up in a kindhearted smirk. “Not laughin’ at you, son. Just glad you’re...” Awake? Cognizant? Alive? “Feeling a bit better.”

Though he flashes a weak smile, Connor doesn’t reply, and his gaze drops to his fingers in his lap. Hank feels his face fall with it. “Something wrong?”

“N-No, just...” He worries his bottom lip. Wonder who he picked that up from? “... thank you.”

“Huh?” Hank says eloquently. “What the hell are you thanking me for?”

“I-I was scared.” His brow furrows. “So—so afraid. I-I thought I’d self—self-destruct.” Here he looks up with those wide brown eyes, so young and full of feeling not even the most ardent anti-android zealot could deny. “But then—I-I heard your—your voice.”

Hank can only stare.

Connor swallows, another act so human. “A-And I wasn’t so scared.” He looks back at his lap. “So... so t-thank you. For. For being there.”

Aw hell.

“Of course I was,” Hank scoffs, because if he isn’t abrasive he might do something sappy like cry (not that Connor’s sincere, innocent comment makes him feel like doing so, nope). “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Connor just shrugs. He still won’t look at him, so Hank gently tips his head up by his chin. “Connor, I promise I’ll always be there when you need me,” he says with the utmost sincerity. “For as long as you want me to. So ya never gotta worry about that shit. Okay?”

“Okay,” the android intones, his smile fuller.

Hank catches Molly crack open the door and peak inside. She stares at him questioningly. He gives a permissive look and she comes inside.

“Sorry about that,” she says smoothly. “Just needed to check on something quick.” She returns to the laptop, humming appraisingly. Nodding to herself, Molly stands up straight and smiles at her patient. “Well Connor, it looks like you’re a fast healer: at this rate, I’ve got no issues letting you head home to rest.”

Hank can’t help the incredulous tone of his voice when he blurts out, brow raised, “Really? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” she echoes. “Your stress levels are down, your body seems to be accepting the new parts, and you’re coherent again. Your battery is low, but that’s to be expected with how much power your self-repair programs requires. With some rest, I think you’ll be good as new in no time.”

“R-Really?” Connor inquires, voice timorous. “But—but my speech is—a-and my memory—”

“All should be temporary,” Molly soothes. “Your system took an incredible shock; it’s only natural you’ll have some aftereffects. You might experience some disorientation and general sluggishness while your CPU repairs itself, maybe even some memory issues. Again, getting a proper charge and taking it easy should fix this.”

All right, he can do that. Namely, Hank will _make_ sure he does that, tie his ass to his bed if he has to so the kid will stay down for once. “So he’s good to go?”

“As long as he feels up to it.”

“I-I do,” Connor rushes in. There’s some urgency there, a fear that if he doesn’t speak up now he’ll be forced to stay. “I would like to—to head h-home.”

“Not a problem. Lemme just unhook you—”

And here Hank thought he would fight him on leaving work early. Kid must be feeling worse than he’s letting on. He watches the bizarre sight of the technician removing that long black cord from the back of Connor’s neck, casual as can be. The android’s eyes flutter when the cable comes out, but he’s not showing distress otherwise so Hank assumes it’s just another odd glitch of his, like when he receives or sends a message in his head. The port on his nape disappears under reappearing skin; you’d never even guess it’s there.

The future’s a lot wilder than he ever imagined.

When Connor swings his legs around over the bed, Hank’s right next to him, slinging the android’s arm across his shoulders. “H-Hank, I don’t need—” He stands, wobbles, and nearly tips over, saved only by his partner’s quick reflexes in steadying him.

“What’s that?” Hank drawls, looking unimpressed.

“... p-perhaps a little help is r-required,” Connor murmurs. Two blushes in one day, a new record. Hank has to fight to keep his stern expression in place.

“Mhm.”

Molly holds her tongue behind a clear smile.

“T-Thank you again, Ms. S-Stewart,” Connor says, because Hank knows he won’t leave before he gets at least two shows of gratitude in. But in his defence, it’s more than warranted; Hank feels he owes her a dozen personally.

“Just doing my job, Connor,” she grins. “But you’re very welcome. Now, get on out of here and take it easy, you hear?”

“Oh, I’ll make sure of it,” Hank promises. “But really, thanks, Molly.”

With a friendly shooing motion, she sends them out the room.

The bullpen looks better than the state he left it in hours ago. Connor’s busted, smoking display is gone, along with the other computers fried from the lightning strike, not a piece of glass to be seen. The desks he’d shoved aside frantically during the kid’s seizure have been pushed back into place. Hank can see a few people working at temporary laptops. If not for the faint scent of burnt plastic, one would think nothing had happened at all.

As soon as they step out the door, at least a dozen eyes land on them, but Hank bats them down with a look that can melt steel. Connor, thankfully, seems a bit too out-of-it to really notice their less-than-covert glances, leaning nearly all his weight on his shoulders. Not too heavy, but he’ll be awkward to drag across the bullpen for sure, like a piece of oddly-shaped furniture. Still, he’s managed worse.

Yet once more he doesn’t have to, because Chris Miller returns in all his glory. There’s genuine relief in his eyes when he spots the android. “Hey, Connor. I’m happy to see you up and about again.”

Connor blinks slowly, yellow LED spinning and spinning. “Ah, O-Officer Miller... I apolo—apolo— _apolo_ gize for the c-concern.”

Chris shakes his head, smiling. “Don’t worry about it, man. Just glad you’re doing better.” His eyes shift to Hank. “Need a hand?”

Hank exhales. “You’re a lifesaver, Chris.”

“I know. Here.” Carefully, Chris takes Connor’s free arm over his shoulder. As they resume walking through the bullpen, Hank looks back at the infirmary door, frowns, and stops.

“Hey, think I left something back there. You mind—?”

“I got ‘im,” Chris says, wrapping a hand around Connor’s waist. “Go ahead.” Nodding his thanks, Hank slips back in the medical wing.

He spots Molly back in the cupboard, wrangling the thick black cord used in Connor’s neck inside. She looks up in surprise at his entrance. “Oh, Hank. Forget something?”

“Sorta.” Making sure the door’s closed, Hank sticks his hands in his pockets and approaches the technician. “Look, I’m just, uh, wondering, is he okay? Like, _really_ okay? He’s just... I just worry, y’know?”

Rising to stand, Molly smiles lopsidedly. “Hank, I assure you he’ll be fine. He might be disoriented while he recovers, more emotional, but that’s normal for CPU damage.”

“Right.” He fidgets in place, teeming with worried energy lacking proper outlet. “Anything else I should watch for?”

“Hmm...” She leans on the table. “Well, again, he’ll probably be out of it: forgetful, easily confused, clumsy. I’d just treat it like a concussion in a human. His vision could possibly glitch again, too.”

Hank tenses. “You mean he might wake up screaming again...?”

Molly purses her lips. She sighs. “Honestly, Hank, it’s a possibility. I think his CPU has recovered enough not to encounter such a glitch again, but I can’t say for certain. We know the ins and outs of androids, but the way they react to certain conditions and how it affects them emotionally is still such a young field. Anything’s on the table.” Her sombre countenance partly lifts. “But I have faith he _will_ be okay. Connor’s as strong and as stubborn as you. Just make sure he takes it easy.”

It’s not what he wants to hear, but he’s got no choice but to accept it. Whatever happens, he’ll make sure to take care of the kid. Hank sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah. I’m just... y’know.” He rubs the back of his neck, feeling awkward under her sympathetic gaze.

“I get it, Hank. Now don’t keep him waiting; Connor tends to roam when he’s bored, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Hank snorts. “Right. See ya, Molly.”

When he returns, Chris is still holding Connor up and muttering benign, reassuring words, while Connor’s looking around the bullpen in a daze. “Sorry ‘bout that,” Hank says, sliding Connor’s arm back over his shoulder. The android blinks at him, but says nothing. “Let’s get going.”

They’re just making their way past Fowler’s office when Hank glances in the glass and makes eye contact. His foot hesitates, but Fowler just nods him on, and Hank flashes a thankful smile in return. He got the message loud and clear: _take care of him_. He’ll have to give the man a call later that night or even the next day to figure out the work schedule for the week.

“Mm...”

“Con?” Hank looks at him with a small frown. “What’s up?”

“Ah...” He lifts his head with obvious effort. “Need to speak with Captain—Captain—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Hank soothes. “I’ve got it handled. I’ll give him a call after. He’ll understand.”

For a moment, he thinks Connor is going to argue this like he normally would, insisting that he’s an adult and that consulting with his boss is his own responsibility, but the fight quickly leaves his expression and he just nods, returning his tired gaze to the floor. Hank’s face twists with worry, and he even catches Chris shooting him a frown over Connor’s shoulder.

Yeah, the kid definitely needs to get home.

Soon they reach the front entrance, the rain growing louder the closer they get to the reinforced double doors. When they step outside, the downpour sounds cacophonous and Hank has to yell to be heard. “Just parked around the corner.” Nodding, Chris opens the umbrella and holds it steady over his colleagues as they step off the curb to wet pavement. It’s a testament to how out of it Connor is that he does not protest, does not insist Chris keep the umbrella for his own use, or at least share with Hank instead. Hank knows he’s water-proof enough that a little rain won’t damage him, but it’s not pleasant to face showers head on, especially injured. Connor wouldn’t have won that fight anyway.

With the android between them, they make their way to his Oldsmobile, pretty much carrying Connor’s weight over their shoulders. The kid’s got his head hanging, eyes to the ground; it seems the short trip through the building took what little’s left out of him. The faster they get him somewhere dry to sit down the better. Fortunately, his parking spot isn’t far.

His first priority is getting Connor in the passenger side and secured. He carefully shifts the android from his shoulders into the seat, then eases it back a touch and buckles him in. Connor doesn’t object, resting his head back with half-shut eyes. Hank squeezes his shoulder before turning to Chris.

“Thanks again, Chris,” he says. The poor man is soaking wet. “I owe you one.”

Chris just shakes his head, smiling. “Neither of you owe me anything. We look out for each other, right?” He gives Connor a small wave. “Feel better, Connor. No pulling any crazy stunts for a while, okay?”

Hank snorts. “I’ve been telling him that for a year, hasn’t seemed to sink in yet.” He shuts the side door and gives the man a friendly wave. “You better get back to it before Fowler’s on your ass.”

Chris sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Take care, Lieutenant. Just gimme a call if you two need anything.”

“Will do. See ya, Chris.”

They part ways and Hank scurries around to his side, more than happy to get out of the rain. He gives Connor a once-over as he buckles in. He’s limp in his seat, eyes barely open and unfocused, LED a muted yellow. “Connor.” The kid looks at him sluggishly. “Why don’t you go ahead and rest your eyes. I’ll wake you when we get home.”

“Home,” Connor mumbles.

“Yeah, home. With Sumo to give you plenty of big kisses until you’re all better.”

He earns a ghost of a smile for that. “Sounds good...” Then he closes his eyes and by the time they pull out of the parking lot he’s drifted off. Hank mutes the soft noise of the radio just in case.

Fortunately, they’re too early for rush hour and the ride is smooth despite the rain. Hank’s eyes dart between the road and Connor every few minutes, just to make sure nothing’s wrong. But his worry is for nothing because Connor is _out_ ; not even the unseen pothole he hits that rattles the car makes him stir. Or the second one. God, this city’s roads have really gone to shit.

It’s about a quarter-to-three when Hank pulls into the driveway. He hasn’t been so happy to be home in a long time. A glance over confirms Connor is still fast asleep, expression peaceful. Unbuckling himself as quietly as possible, Hank slowly opens his side and jogs up the porch. He can already hear Sumo inside, whining and scratching at the door.

When he steps in, he’s immediately assaulted by two hundred pounds of exuberant fur and muscle. “Down, Sumo, down!” The dog obeys, though not before delivering his slimiest lick across the face, and Hank, despite the situation and his disgust, feels a smile tug at his lips. “Hey there, boy,” he continues in a gentler voice, loving the dog up. “We’re home, but Connor’s not doing so great. Think you can keep it down?”

Sumo’s ears perk at his favourite person’s name. But then he just goes back to happy panting, so Hank’s not sure they really have an agreement. He sighs, giving the dog a few more head pats. “No barking, okay? Stay.”

Hank fishes a stray boot from the back of the closet and uses it to prop the screen door open. The rain feels softer as he returns to the car. Connor doesn’t stir, even as he opens his door and unclips his seat belt, but his LED hasn’t gone red so Hank’s not worried. Well, not any _more_ worried than he already is. Taking a deep breath, he reaches under the kid’s upper back and knees and scoops him into his arms.

He’s definitely feeling the added weight of a six-foot tall adult android without Chris’s help. Still, Connor’s lighter than he thought he’d be—probably designed that way with speed and grace in mind. Hank heaves him up higher, shifting his head from its uncomfortable dangle to resting solidly against his shoulder. He moves with extra caution back into the house, afraid of slipping and dropping the kid. Once in, he kicks the boot out to let the screen door shut and locks the door behind him. Whatever, he doesn’t give a shit about an old shoe right now.

Sumo stayed as commanded, seated patiently. His tail sweeps across the floor as he spots Connor, but thankfully he doesn’t make a sound. Hank mutters a ‘good boy’ as he moves past him, promising extra treats later. It’s still afternoon, so there’s no need to chance the lights and waking Connor. He heads down the hall without taking his wet shoes off, Sumo following diligently behind. Whatever. He doesn’t give a shit about some muddy shoes right now.

A few months after Connor had begun living with him, Hank mustered up the courage to finally brave Cole’s room. It hadn’t been easy—fuck, it’d been gut-wrenching—to go through all his little boy’s old things, from his beloved stuffed animals and dinosaur toys to the pictures he’d drawn still taped up on the walls. Sometimes he cried, sometimes just sat in oppressive silence as memories made grief three-years-old feel as fresh as the moment he learned his son was dead. Yet he’d done it all the same and managed to keep Connor out of the house while doing so, wanting the whole thing to be a surprise.

The android’s stunned joy and grateful tears made his own all worth it.

The room started and somewhat remained rather bare: just a single bed, a night stand with a lamp, and a small dresser he’d shelled out for beforehand. The android truly had very little to his name, besides the clothes Hank had helped him pick out a week after the Revolution he’d been keeping in Hank’s closet. Still, there were some signs of personality, whether it be the potted succulents on the windowsill or the bobble-head Golden Retriever Tina got him for the office Christmas party at his bedside.

And above the dresser, taped to the wall, a crude stick figure drawing of Cole and his dad holding hands. Connor never mentioned it, only explained when Hank spotted it one day that he’d found it left behind in the closet.

(He might have gotten a bit misty-eyed. Fuck, he doesn’t deserve this kid.)

Hank opens the door to Connor’s room, the small space as clean and immaculate as ever. Approaching the bed, he pulls back the grey comforter, but as he goes to lay Connor down, he hesitates. He hasn’t carried someone to bed, hasn’t carried someone in his arms period, in three years. He expects the revelation to wind him, to give the ever-present gnawing beast of grief something fresh to chew on, but oddly, the pain doesn’t come fully. Beneath the muted ache, Hank feels something... warm. Familiar and affectionate, not entirely unlike how he felt carrying Cole.

Staring down at Connor’s serene face, Hank chuckles. If someone had told him over a year ago that one day he’d be carrying an android to bed, while comparing said android to his late son, he would’ve socked them. As is now, he’s reluctant to let the kid go. He doesn’t often see Connor so vulnerable physically—the android can and has taken a bullet and kept on going—and the sight swells a fierce sense of protectiveness in his chest.

But there’s a sudden twinge in his back and finally Hank places Connor on the bed, angling his body so his legs hang down to the floor. From there he removes the android’s wet shoes, then swings his legs properly onto the mattress. He gently eases him into a sitting position so he can undress him. He hasn’t had to change another person in years, an adult at that, but like muscle memory his fingers retrace old paths of sleeves and buttons and awkward angles. The kid will be that much more comfortable in his favourite blue cotton pyjamas, the ones with the little bulldog faces all over.

Sumo, having been lingering in the door frame with remarkable patience, at last trots over to the bed. He sniffs at Connor’s face, then lets out a worried whine. “I know, boy,” Hank murmurs, patting the dog’s head. “But he’ll be okay. He just needs to rest. Keep an eye on him for me?”

The Saint-Bernard had probably already made up his mind to curl up at Connor’s feet, but Hank chooses to believe he’s just that smart and obedient. If there’s a problem, Hank knows the mutt won’t hesitate to come fetch him. Outside, thunder rumbles as the rain picks back up. The house feels humid and still.

Hank combs Connor’s hair a little neater before leaving him to sleep, glancing back at the thresh hold and smiling at the domestic image of the snoozing android and watchful canine. He leaves the door open a crack, in case Connor were to call or Sumo wanted out. With all said and done, Hank goes to clean up the shoe prints in the hall, puts on the game at quarter-volume, and slumps into the couch with a heavy exhale. He shoots Markus a text to let him know he’s brought Connor home. When sleep comes, he lets it take him; after this heart attack of a day, he thinks he deserves a little break.

* * *

Hank comes around to a soft whimper, followed by a woman’s voice. Through his post-nap haze, he realizes it’s just some commercial, and that outside it’s still light through the rain. With a groan befitting an old man (because fuck that’s what he is), he sits up, scratching the back of his head while checking the time on his phone. Just after five. Guess he should throw something together for dinner soon. Hell, he can probably get away with ordering a pizza without having Connor on his back, but the android is dealing with enough without having to worry about his health, so he’ll hold off for now.

Hank’s just about to get up when he hears it again: a soft whimper, male cadence. His brow furrows. That definitely wasn’t the TV—sounded way too close. He hears it again, a touch louder, then nails on hardwood and a dog whining. Realization snaps him from his stupor and Hank springs to his feet, rushing down the hall.

_Connor._

That slight whimper sends his mind into a whirlwind of nightmarish possibilities: the new parts aren’t working, Connor’s malfunctioning, he’s stuck in bed in pain. The blood rush from standing up so quickly constricts the hall with darkness in the edges of his vision, but he’s not stopping until he gets to Connor’s room. When he does, he shoulders past the open door with a loud _bang_. Breathless, he takes in the scene.

Connor’s in the same position he left him in, but his entire body is tense, his LED bright red. He’s throwing his head back and forth on the pillow, whimpering and muttering incomprehensible syllables, eyes clenched tight. Sumo stands by the bed, sniffing at his face and whining. The dog trots over to Hank when he enters, big liquid eyes pleading him to fix his upset friend. Swallowing, the man approaches the android and shakes him by the shoulders.

“Connor. Connor, wake up.”

The kid just whimpers. Sumo paces the room in anxious circles.

“Connor, hey—” Hank raises his voice, heart clenching at the distress on Connor’s face. “It’s okay, you’re okay, wake up.” A rougher shake—as rough as he dares to get, afraid of harming the android in his injured state. “Connor!”

With a loud gasp, Connor shoots upright, nearly crashing their skulls together. He’s heaving for air, his whole body shaking, and wide eyes dart frantically around the room. “Connor, Connor, hey,” Hank intones, squeezing his shoulders. “Look at me, kid, look at me.”

It takes a few seconds, but the android meets his eyes. They still look a bit hazy even through the raw fear, like he’s not really seeing him. “N-No—b-blood, I—I—”

Acting on instinct, Hank draws Connor into his arms, one hand on the back of his head. “Shh, sh,” he hushes, trying to ground him. He strokes impossibly-realistic hair. “You’re okay, you’re okay. You’re home, with me ‘n’ Sumo, and I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

Connor remains limp in his hold, chin set on his shoulder, and Hank can feel tears roll down into his shirt. The kid’s still quaking, though it’s easing with each passing second. “H-Hank,” he chokes, drowned in static. Relief floods Hank like a wave. At least he seems coherent.

“Yeah, kid. ‘m right here. Breathe, breathe...” So he does, taking deep inhales with Hank’s example until his breathing evens out with only the faint hiccup. He rubs circles on his back, gives him a few minutes to calm down. Once he spots that LED change from red to yellow in the corner of his eye, Hank pulls back, hands remaining on Connor’s forearms in a loose grip.

The kid’s a wreck, hair dishevelled, tear tracks on his cheeks, looking miserable and exhausted, and the sight tugs at Hank’s chest. Connor sluggishly wipes his eyes. “... sorry.” Barely a whisper.

“Nothin’ to apologize for,” Hank grunts. He smiles sympathetically. “Bad dream?”

Connor nods.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I-I can’t...” He holds his head in his hands. “It’s h-hazy, but—but there was b-blood, a-and you, a-and... I-I can’t recall, ‘m sorry...”

Those hallucinations he experienced earlier that left him screaming must still be haunting his subconscious. Hank reaches up to pet his hair. “That’s all right. Don’t stress about it.” Nightmares are usually better forgotten anyway. “How are you feeling?”

Letting his hands fall, Connor stares at them in his lap. “I-I feel... strange.”

“Strange?” Hank frowns. He looks him over. “Strange how? Like something’s wrong?”

“No... just... o-odd.” He squints, his LED a spinning yellow. “Like—like—like my p-processors a-are all—all muddied. It’s hard—it’s hard—it’s hard—” His head jerks and Hank admits it’s somewhat terrifying to hear him stutter like a buffering computer. “Hard to f-focus.”

“Well, that is what Molly said to expect. But you’ll recover and it’ll all come back to you.”

Raising his eyes to meet Hank’s, Connor frowns. “She—she said that?”

“Yeah, son. And memory troubles.” He smirks but there’s nothing smug or derogatory about it; in fact, it’s somewhat fond. He roughs up Connor’s hair until it goes frizzy. “Don’t worry, Con. It’s only temporary. And I’ll be right here until you’re better.”

“B-But what about—about work?” With such genuine concern in his eyes.

Hank scoffs. “You think I’m leaving you alone with this? Hell no. Jeffrey can fuck right off.” Though he’s sure the man won’t even argue and if he does he can actually fuck right off. Not like he’d get anything done even if he did go in, too worried the android he’d left home would have some sudden malfunction, would try to get up and hurt himself, or would just shut down quietly all alone. Or, knowing Connor’s luck, someone would break in while he was defenceless. No, he definitely can’t leave him alone.

Connor doesn’t look pleased at his decision. “But—”

Before he can finish his sentence, Sumo, evidently having waited long enough, abruptly jumps on the bed and climbs into his lap, snuffing and licking and fussing over Connor’s face. The android laughs weakly, making very little effort to push him off. “S-Sumo!”

“He held off longer than I thought he would,” Hank chuckles. “Think the big lug is worried about ya.” He pats the canine’s rear end, avoiding the wagging tail in his face. “Come on Sumo, give him some space. Not play time.”

The large dog grumbles but acquiesces, settling beside Connor with his head on his knee. Gently, Connor strokes his snout, looking down at him fondly. The small smile on his lips draws one of his own. Maybe he should be more upset that the dog he’s had for years so clearly prefers a newcomer over himself, but the duo are so stupidly wholesome he can’t muster the sense of betrayal.

“Connor,” Hank says, drawing his attention. “Really, don’t worry about it. Fowler understands. Besides, I’m sure he prefers me using my days off spent taking care of someone than how I used to use ‘em.” Mostly staying in bed all day in a spiral of depression, followed by copious drinking and a go at Russian Roulette.

“... okay.” So quiet, even harder to discern under a thin layer of static and the natural, airy timbre of his voice. Connor continues to pet Sumo’s face, scrunching the bed sheet with his free hand. “I... I-I am sorry, h-however. For—for causing all this t-trouble.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Hank scoffs. “You got hurt, it was an accident.”

“I-I know, but I...” If possible, his voice grows even fainter, eyes glued to his lap. “I... don’t—don’t like to c-cause such a—a f-fuss.”

At the android’s subdued temperament, Hank softens. He notices that his speaking issues seem to worsen when he’s stressed or upset. Reaching out, he places a hand on his knee to get his attention. “Connor,” he says, “If I was the one who got injured by some freak electric shock, would you blame me?”

Connor looks scandalized by the very idea. “O-Of course not!”

“Would I be ‘causing a fuss’ if I needed some help afterwards?”

He’s pretty sure his point’s been made. Connor drops his gaze again. “... no.”

“Then don’t worry so much about it, son,” Hank smirks. He gives his knee a friendly pat, then stands up with a groan. “Need anything? You wanna sleep—er, do your stasis thing some more?”

“... c-could I...” Connor appears terribly small, curled up in bed and stammering through his words. He looks up at Hank, squinting beseechingly. “Sit—sit out i-in the l-living room?”

Hank pauses. “Uh... yeah. I mean sure, if you want. But isn’t your bed more comfortable?”

Connor hesitates only a moment, but he doesn’t look away. “... I-I do not wish to—to be a-alone.”

Well fuck. How can he possibly say no to that?

“Couch it is,” Hank smiles. “Come on then, up ya get.” Connor doesn’t protest this time when he moves to help him stand, likely recalling how well that went last time. He does seem a bit steadier on his feet, however, and Hank doesn’t feel the brunt of his weight across his shoulder like he did earlier. Sumo hops off the bed and does an excited circle around them. “Who said you’re invited, huh?”

The dog cocks his head, staring at him as if he can actually understand. Hank rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah, I guess you can come too. Getting puppy eyes from every direction in my own damn house...”

From the corner of his vision, he spots Connor smiling.

They take their time walking down the hall, Sumo staying just a few steps ahead and stopping to look back every time he gets too far. Once he’s got Connor situated on the couch, Hank immediately buries him in throw blankets and hands him the remote. “Here, put whatever you want on. I’m just gonna throw something together for dinner.”

Connor frowns at the converter. “H-Hank, I do not wish to—wish to i-interrupt your g-game—”

Sure enough, the game’s still on, though it’ll be wrapping up soon. “Detroit fuckin’ lost,” Hank says. “You’d be doing me a favour changing the channel.”

“V-Very well.” Then, without pressing a single button, Connor looks at the TV and turns it using only his mind. Show-off. Sumo curls up at his feet. Satisfied that the android is situated comfortably, Hank heads to the kitchen to heat up some leftovers. Connor’s been all about the stir-fry lately, which he begrudgingly tried and now begrudgingly enjoys. Maybe with a little less vegetables, though. He sits at the dining table and scarfs down his meal in less than ten minutes.

It shouldn’t surprise him what’s on the TV when he returns: the fish channel. Probably not the actual name, but it’s the fucking fish channel. Hank still doesn’t get the kid’s love for underwater life, but if it makes him happy, he certainly won’t judge. He takes a seat beside the android; Sumo briefly lifts his dopey eyes at the newcomer, then settles.

There’s some purple fish with a yellow tail on screen, foraging for algae between rocks with what looks like a snout. Hank didn’t even know fish could have snouts. The shape kinda reminds him of that blue fish named Dory from _Finding Nemo_. “Pretty tame for this channel,” Hank comments. “Usually when you’re watching it, there’s weird-ass alien creatures with tentacles or something.”

There’s too long a pause before an answer. Hank looks over with a frown. “Connor?”

Connor doesn’t acknowledge him. He just keeps staring at the TV, but by the way his eyes are distant and glassy he’s not really watching it. His body is loose, limp against the couch, LED a slow circling yellow. Hank’s on high alert immediately. He shakes his shoulder. “Connor? Connor!”

The android starts. His head whips towards him, eyes wide, mouth ajar. “Ah, y-yes, Hank?”

“Are you all right?” Hank inquires, gently turning his chin to inspect him. He doesn’t feel warm at least. “You weren’t responding.”

Connor looks away. “I-I’m okay. I apolo—apologize.”

“You sure?” Maybe some other time he’d let it go as Connor just zoning out, but after the day’s events, he’s tuned for anything out of the ordinary. Connor glances at him, hesitance palpable. “Kid, you can talk to me. If somethin’s bothering you, I wanna know.”

“I-I just...” He pulls the blanket tighter around his frame. “I feel like—like a part, a part o-of me is still there.”

Hank squints. “Huh?” Probably not the best response, but he’s got _no_ fucking clue what he means.

“I-It’s hard to—to explain.” He fidgets. “But I feel like part o-of me is still in the compu—compu—computer.”

“The computer? You mean at work?”

“Yes. An a-android’s mind is essentially a c-computer itself. W-When we interface with another computer, we sync a part of ourselves w-with the machine. I-It’s why I appear so absorbed in my task w-while connected.”

“Goddamn, that’s wild,” Hank remarks. This really is the scifi future humans dreamt of in the past, huh? “So you’re saying you like, meld your consciousness with a computer?”

“O-One could look at it that way, yes.”

Hank whistles, suitably impressed. “Wow. You never cease to surprise me, Connor.” But he quickly sobers, looking at the android with concern. “But what do you mean, you feel like a part of you is still there? Is this something you should get checked out...?”

Connor shakes his head. “N-No, nothing like that. It’s more of a—of a feeling. W-When I am a-abruptly taken out of the inter—interface, t-there is a sensation of d-disorientation. But it, it goes away q-quickly. T-This should too. Until then, I...” He looks at his hands and Hank swears they’re trembling.

“You...?”

“I-I just feel... discon—disconnected. L-Like I’m seeing my surroundings through a f-filter. I’m n-not sure that...” Connor looks up at him, wide-eyed. “T-This is real, isn’t it? _I-I’m_ real?”

Hank scoots closer to him on the couch and gently squeezes his knee. “Yeah, Connor,” he says with the utmost sincerity, trying not to let his worry show. “This is all real, I promise. _You_ are real. The feeling will pass.”

Connor looks down with something like embarrassment. “S-Sorry. I—I know it’s real, I-I do, I-I just...”

“Hey,” Hank intones, getting his attention again. “It’s okay, kid. Think you’re dissociating. After what happened today, I don’t blame ya.”

“Oh...” He furrows his brow. “I-I understand that word now.”

“What? Dissociating?”

“Yes. I-I know what it means, a-as it often comes up with v-victims involved in our cases. But I—I d-didn’t truly comprehend it until now.” Connor swallows. “I... do not think I e-enjoy it.”

“Nobody does, kid,” he says. “Anything I can do for ya you think might help?”

Another embarrassed look. But before Hank can try to coax it out, Connor blurts, “C-Could you hold my hand a-again...?”

Well, that’s not what he expected. And it must show on his face because Connor ducks his head again, cheeks tinting a faint blue. “A-Apologies, I don’t—I-I didn’t m-mean—”

Hank takes his hand. “This okay?”

Connor just blinks at him, that yellow LED swirling and swirling. Who’d’ve thought the thing to finally break his genius brain would be a little physical contact? “... yes.” A small but sincere smile. “I-It’s fine.”

“Good.” Hank settles back against the couch and returns his attention back to the TV. “You still wanna watch this?”

“If—If you do not mind—”

“Course I don’t. If there’s one thing in life I can appreciate, it’s a good purple fish.”

Beside him, Connor also relaxes. “A _zebrasoma xanthurum_ ,” he corrects, humour in his voice. How he managed that mouthful without stuttering Hank’s got no fucking clue. He raises an eyebrow at the android who just smiles in return. “Or, more commonly: the p-purple tang.”

“Close enough.”

For the next twenty minutes Hank’s only half watching the show. He’s not terribly interested regardless of the circumstances, but most of his attention is dedicated to keep an eye on the quiet android beside him. Normally he can’t get the kid to shut up while watching the fish channel, spouting every related fact he knows like he’s reading off a goddamn Wikipedia page; today, he only goes so far as pointing out the proper name of every new creature that makes its way on screen. Guess he just doesn’t have the energy for that. Now and then Hank notices Connor’s eyes starting to glaze over again, and he brings him back to awareness with a firm squeeze of his hand.

Around half an hour later, Hank feels something fall on his shoulder. Connor jerks his head up, blinking tiredly. “S-Sorry, Hank. I-I did not—”

But Hank just guides his head right back. “Don’t worry about it,” he grunts. “If you’re tired, sleep.”

“Don’ sleep,” Connor intones. He’s slurring his words, voice husky with exhaustion. “E-Enter stasis—”

“Yeah yeah. Sleep, enter stasis, whatever. Just rest already before I make ya.”

His eyes drift shut. Connor honest-to-God yawns (androids can yawn?), body relaxing against him. “Mmm... ‘kay, Dad.”

Hank swears his heart stops.

He swivels his head down to look at him, but the android’s already asleep, LED blue and breaths calm. He just stares at his peaceful face dumbly, one of the few times in his life he’s genuinely felt stunned. He must’ve misheard. There’s no way Connor just called him...

_Dad._

God, that word used to be everything to him. It didn’t matter how badly the day went, how gruesome his cases got, as long as he could go home at the end of the day to his little boy and that simple word that made him feel like he could do anything. He’d been proud when he’d been promoted to lieutenant, but that rank is nothing to father; he’d trade his career in a moment just to have it back. He’d give anything just to have _Cole_ back.

But he’s not coming back, ever, and there’s nothing he can do to change that. Now to hear that word again after three long years...

It should hurt more. And God, does it hurt. But it’s not debilitating. Connor hasn’t crossed some line and irrevocably damaged their relationship. How could he possibly hold something like this against him when he’s so vulnerable? So young, too. The android was created to physically emulate an adult male in his 20s to early 30s, but here asleep in his blue cotton pyjamas, he looks so terribly young. And truly, Hank realizes, he is. Connor’s a genius, an absolute fucking badass on the field, but he’s technically not even a year old yet.

A year old. Manipulated and used from day one. Meant to hunt his own people and still fearing their ostracization as a result. Having suffered so many injuries, having seen so much death. Despised by so many humans just for what he is. Curious and compassionate and eager to learn, to _live_ in spite of this. Innocent in a way only naive children can be.

Something in Hank’s chest aches.

Even if Connor had crossed some line, what right did he have to give him blame? Hank took him in when he had nowhere else to go, made sure he had shelter from the brutal Detroit winter. He answered the android’s (numerous) questions on humanity and life and everything in between as best he could, helped him parse through emotions so new, introduced him to classic films, to holidays, to experiences. He finally tackled Cole’s room because he felt Connor needed and deserved his own space. He tried to make sure Connor was doing okay, and if he couldn’t do that, he’d support him until he was.

In short... treated him like a son. Has been for months now, but never wanted to admit it to himself even though it was so damn obvious, not wanting to put a label on their relationship as if that could keep its very nature at bay. Feeling like he’s betraying his dead little boy.

But Cole had always wanted a sibling. And he’s sure if he was still alive, he’d think Connor was the coolest big brother ever.

Ignoring the burning in his eyes, Hank lets go of Connor’s hand to wrap an arm around his shoulder and pull him closer against him. He uses his free hand to take the kid’s again; he’s gotta awkwardly stretch across his lap and his arm’ll likely be sore later, but that’s okay. He notices Connor’s hand is skinless again. Interfacing asleep. An act of trust.

With a soft smile, Hank plants a quick kiss on his son’s head. He rests his neck back, staring at the TV until he drifts off to the light patter of rain.

* * *

The next time Hank comes around is with a house-rattling boom of thunder that startles him upright. He looks around wildly. The house is significantly darker, but not pitch-black. Rain’s come back with a vengeance, blotting the street lights out the window into vague, blurry lights. Once his heart settles, he realizes the empty vacancy of his arms where Connor should be and his heart rate rockets again. Shit shit shit, he shouldn’t be up on his own, where is—

“Con?” Hank calls, shooting to his feet. “Connor?!” He really didn’t think having a housemate again would be so stressful, but here he is. Rapidly he checks each room, the kitchen, the bathroom, and finally Connor’s bedroom where, thank the fucking Lord, he finds the android that has a bad habit of giving him heart attacks on a daily basis. The tension bleeds from his frame.

The kid’s sitting on his bed curled up in a blanket from the couch, looking out the window. As Hank enters the room, there’s a blinding flash of lightning, followed by bellowing thunder seconds later. It’s enough to make him jump, but Connor doesn’t even flinch. “Kid?” he ventures.

There’s no trepidation or fear when Connor looks at him, no latent trauma brought to the surface. With his LED blue, he gives Hank the biggest damn smile he’s seen all day, eyes filled with awe. “Hank,” he whispers, “It’s w-wonderful.”

And Hank can’t help but return his smile as he takes a seat beside him. He wraps an arm around the android and settles in to watch the storm. “It sure is, Con.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank: acts like a worried father  
> Connor: okay dad   
> Hank: hold up
> 
> So Connor got to enjoy his storm in the end :) 
> 
> I was thinking of those AI generated surreal collage images that become nightmarish for the last chapter with his visions.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think of the ending!


End file.
